


The Skulls in Our Wake

by The_Patron



Series: Minutewatch [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Buckle up for a long ride, Hurt/Comfort, It takes a while for everyone to meet up, M/M, McHanzo and Genyatta eventually, Monster Reaper, PTSD, Reaper can see souls, Slow Burn, There is a character death early in the story so I flagged a MCD warning, canon-typical violence for both games, lots of canon divergence for the OW cast for obvious reasons, may change to Explicit later, no beta so forgive my errors, regular updates, so much pining, takes a few chapters to get rolling, welcome to my fandom trash heap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-04-25 15:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 185,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14381802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Patron/pseuds/The_Patron
Summary: For the fleetest of moment’s, he was back at Blackwatch, lying on the roof with Jack, staring at the stars and smoking a cigarette as they made idealistic plans for their future. They were going to retire from the Gunners together and fix up houses. Make themselves a pre-war paradise. Maybe join the Minutemen and be real heroes for a change.Jack smiled at him, young and blonde and handsome like those men on the covers of pre-war magazines, and Gabriel’s heart stopped beating.And then he was again swallowed by the familiar, cold blackness, vanishing into the yawning nothing.





	1. Welcome to Blackwatch

“Just what the hell is this?” Jack motioned at the ratty teenager trailing in Gabriel’s shadow. “Gabriel, we’ve been over this. You know the Corporals don’t like it when you take it upon yourself to just go around snatching up recruits into your ranks— _our_ ranks,” he corrected as his partner approached.

“Nice to see you too, Jack,” he flashed his prettiest smile and Jack knew he’d already lost, lips pressing together with frustration at his complete lack of being able to fight back against Gabriel’s beautiful fucking face. God damn it. The Lieutenant chuckled and pat Jack’s shoulder as he passed and motioned for the guards to let them in, screaming at Private Rogers to clean his gear or Reyes just might strip him down in front of the whole damn watchpoint.

Jack sighed and turned his exasperation on the new recruit.

He was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, almost as tall as himself and built strong but obviously suffering from some degree of malnourishment. The boy suffered poor posture and was hugging his chest, head tilted forward enough to be hidden beneath the brim of an old cowboy hat. He wore a red plaid shirt, a matching red bandanna with the Deadlock gang logo embroidered on it, and a pair of ancient-looking jeans that had long ago lost most their blue color. Gabriel had already stripped him of all his armor and any real gear the kid had before being enlisted, but he was armed with a revolver, probably emptied of any bullets it had been carrying. Further inspection of the gun proved to be of interest, as it was of greater bulk than most revolvers he’d seen. He thought that it could be a .44, but it was hard to tell from his angle.

“What’re you lookin’ at, blondie?” the boy angled himself, trying to turn away from the inspection.

Jack grabbed him by the shoulder to force the boy to move along, earning a colorful but short fit of Spanish curses before the teenager settled down as he was led him into the base. “Let’s get one thing straight, kid. You may have been brought in by Commander Reyes but you’ll learn to respect me and your peers, or so help me, I’ll see to it that you end up right back in the dirt, understood? This is my op as much as it is his, and I demand loyalty and excellence from the soldiers here at Blackwatch.”

“Blackwatch?” the teenager grumbled. “That’s a weird name…”

Jack folded his arms, leering down at the nervous youth. “And what’s your name, kid?”

“McCree,” he mumbled after a few defiant seconds. “Jesse McCree.”

“How old are you, McCree?”

The teenager fidgeted and adjusted his hat lower on his face. “I turned sixteen last month.”

Jack knew enough about living in the wastes that sixteen was as good as a man out here. It still discouraged him to find these adult children so lost and miserable, but he knew better than to try to hire them off the streets. Reyes was always weak to them, wanting to extend a hand when he saw the opportunity to do good by them, even if it put himself at risk. “How long were you on your own, before meeting the Deadlocks?”

McCree hesitated in some consideration of the question. “About a year, give or take.”

“And how long were you with them?”

“Just shy of four years, sir.” Good. He was learning his place. “Joined ‘em when I was about twelve.”

Four years of being a raider was going to be hard to break. Bad habits and poor attitudes came with being in gangs and Jack would tolerate absolutely none of it. “Care to explain why you joined a gang, McCree?”

“Made for better protection and supplies than bein’ on my own, I guess,” the boy shrugged and adjusted his hat again, a nervous tick. “Seemed like the best chance at survival I had, so I took it.”

Jack pointed at the gun strapped to Jesse’s bony hip. “That your revolver?”

“Yes sir. Peacekeeper. Got ‘er from my pa. She’s the only thing I need in the whole damn world.”

“Peacekeeper, huh? That’s sort of an ironic name for a raider’s weapon, don’t you think?”

“I ain’t no raider!” The youth snarled and glared up under the brim of his hat, his dark eyes and body language radiating with a sudden and passionate fury. “We were a gang! Just looked out for ourselves, is all!”

“The Deadlocks were good as raiders, kid,” Jack grunted, unimpressed by the show of immaturity. “You guys harassed farmers and settlers and merchants for caps. Hogged the roads and demanded tolls,” he leered. “Stealing and selling high-grade weapons to other raider gangs. Need I go on? I have more.”

“Like the Gunners are much better!” the teenager hissed accusatorily, his sudden burst of aggression catching Jack off-guard. What had happened to the meek child he’d just brought in? McCree lunged and poked a gloved finger in Jack’s blue breast-plate. “Y’all act so tough and like you’re better than us, but y’r not! The only difference between you ‘n me is you get paid and have a dumb title!”

Passing soldiers stopped to watch before scampering in all directions when the Lieutenantmadea stern sweep of his blue eyes before resettling them on the furious child at his feet. He’d handled feisty recruits before, always ones that Gabriel had dragged in to base by their ratty tails, and he’d do it again. He leaned his full height over the youth and grabbed Jesse’s hand, emphasizing his annoyance by squeezing the fingers. That earned a frustrated mewl and tug for release, but Jack held firm, his eyes gazing firmly down at the recruit with gentle indifference. “Well, if you’d stop acting like an insubordinate child and join our ranks, those differences will be mute.”

McCree stopped struggling and squinted up at Jack, some heat bleeding out of his cinnamon eyes. “You offerin’ me a job, mister?”

“I might be.” Jack released the teenager’s hand. McCree pulled it back, flicking the numbness from his fingers. “But you have to prove that you’re capable of following orders and not just being a brat. Can you do that for me, McCree?”

The brunette gave a slow nod. “Yeah… I mean…I guess…”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Jack flashed a bright grin and put an arm around him, jostling the teenager’s paranoia and fury away. “Listen,” he started to walk as the rest of the soldiers returned to their business, the show over as quickly as it had started, “you seem like a good kid, so I’ll give you a chance. If Reyes offered you a position with us, then I won’t bother asking if you’re good with that gun of yours. Spend the rest of the day meeting your new peers. Get to know everyone. And tomorrow you’ll be ready by five for training. Private Johan can give you the details.”

“FIVE?!” Jesse croaked. “In the MORNING?!”

“That’s right. Bright and early,” Jack suppressed a snicker as the recruit grumbled under his breath. “Then we work you into the ground until the Lieutenant and I are happy. After that, you get a rank and Reyes sticks you on patrol or whatever he deems appropriate. Then you’re all his problem.”

“And _then_ I get paid?”

“And then you get paid,” Jack pat him on the back before stopping at the shack used for recruit bunks. 

Jesse scanned Jack with a level of intensity that he was only accustomed to seeing spark in the amber flames of Gabriel’s eyes. This was no child. “You guys gonna give me bullets ‘n armor ‘n stuff?”

“Yes, but that’s Reyes’ job, not mine. I provide for my unit and he provides for his. Don’t worry too much about it, though. He’s good to his soldiers.”

“Oh. So you two, uh, work separately?”

“We have our own units, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“And y’all live separately?”

Jack slowly arched a brow as Jesse hid those luminous eyes of his under the brim of his hat. “Yes?”

“Oh. Well… I uh…sort’f thought y’all were…like… I dunno. Uh…Shackin’ up?”

Jack’s cerulean eyes iced over. “We’re not 'shacking up,' Jesse,” he smiled through his perfect, white teeth. “We’re friends, and we’ve been working together for over a decade. Reyes has seniority since he joined first, so he gets the final say on most things around here, which is the only reason you’re not hanging from a tree. So keep in his good graces and you’ll be fine.” Jack clapped a hand on the nervous boy’s shoulder before he wandered off, leaving the ex-gangster to find his own way into the barracks. “See you tomorrow at five,” he called. “And good luck. You’ll need it.”

 

Jack spent the rest of the afternoon checking in on his soldiers and making sure everything was running smoothly and efficiently. It was his job more than anything to make sure that Blackwatch ran like a well-oiled machine. He didn’t bother to stop his rounds until the sun set and his stomach gurgled loudly enough that he decided it was time to surrender and clock in for the day.

The Mess Hall was little more than a ten-by-twenty metal shack filled with dented tables and rusted stools, but it was livelier and busier than most the rest of the camp at any given time, always seeming to straddle the line of a riot. A small kitchen with wooden pantries was installed against the wall, complete with a sink that he and Gabriel had managed to get working when they were first settling in here. This is the temple where Gabriel worked his black magic. The wizard was already at his post, working the oven and dressed down in his familiar grey hoodie and black sweatpants, still wearing his stupid black knit cap even though it was mid-summer and stifling outside.

Gabriel sang along with a group of drunken soldiers that Jack pretended not to notice as he passed, narrowly avoiding getting a beer splashed onto his jacket during his wall-hugging approach. Gabriel was the best at this, between them: bonding with his soldiers. He could be cranky and harsh but he was always fair and knew how to have a good time. Jack excelled at gaining trust and respect but, besides Gabriel, he’d never really been close to any of the people that he worked with, even back in their SEP days. Gabriel continued to be the heart of their operation, always smiling or screaming at someone, always joking and leering and handsome.

Handsome. He was so _handsome_. Even in that stupid ‘Raise the Steaks’ apron, Jack could hardly stand it.

Reyes beamed one of his fanged grins over his shoulder, like a predator smelling his prey’s panic. “Morrison!” he howled over the noise.“You’ve finally decided to shut off for the day, eh?” Jack scowled at the drunken group behind them, opening his mouth to ruin the mood with something disparaging before being saved from himself by a large hand clasped on his shoulder. “Relax, Jackie,” he sniggered and shook the irritation from the blonde. “They’re just having fun. You know—fun?”

“I know what fun is, Gabe.”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“Oh, hah-hah.” He peered back towards the kitchenette to get a glance at whatever Gabriel was working on but was jerked away.

“No-no, cariño! I’m not finished with my magic yet!”

“What are we eating?” Jack sniffed the air for clues as he was escorted to sit at a wooden table outside. Their table. They always ate together, but when things got too rambunctious, Gabriel always made a point to sit out back behind the mess hall to eat together. Jack really didn’t deserve him.

“Patience, Morrison,” Gabriel scolded, bobbing his spatula at him for emphasis. “I’m almost done, all right? Just sit out here,” he reached over Jack’s shoulder and turned on the radio. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. So just sit your pretty blonde ass here and don’t move.”

Jack rolled his eyes but nodded before Gabriel jogged back inside. He took the time to remove his shoulder guards and breastplate so he could properly shrug off his jacket, letting it drape behind him on the pinewood chair Gabriel had made for his last birthday. He carefully set his armor to his right side, ready to leap up at any given notice, always on alert and ready to respond to any alarms.

 _My paranoid little bluejay_ , Reyes’ voice echoed warmly in his skull.

_Mi corazón._

_Mi alma._

_Mi sol._

“You look like you have to take a serious shit, Morrison.”

Jack blinked out of himself. “Huh?”

Gabriel dropped into his chair, food already laid out on the table: fresh radstag with baked corn and some sort of tomato bisque welcomed his senses, warm and inviting. Had ten minutes already passed?

“This looks great, Gabe.” Jack eyed the meal hungrily, his stomach gurgling loudly enough that his face turned ton strawberry as Reyes laughed.

“Eat,” Gabriel handed him a plastic fork and knife, grinning with satisfaction as Jack took them and began eating. The Lieutenant hummed and leaned over in his chair, dropping out of view for a moment before returning with two bottles of beer like he were holding trophies of gold. Jack only half-watched him open them, too concerned with his meal to comment on Gabriel’s need to make a show about everything. “I’m getting the feeling you approve.”

“Yup,” he managed between bites.

“Christ, Morrison. Take a moment to chew, will you? That’s fine food right there it demands proper appreciation.”

Jack swallowed and hesitated, already half-way through his meal. “It’s so good, though.”

“Of course it is,” Gabriel huffed and began to cut his meat. “You’d better be gracious for the basil. Do you have any clue how hard it is to cultivate basil out here? Shit. I wish I could get my hands on some garlic, though. Or onions, for that matter. Not sure I’ll ever get that lucky.”

“Where did you even find basil, anyways?” Jack grabbed a spoon to try the soup. God, it was so good. He could never get enough of Reyes’ cooking. Gabriel had once attempted to teach Jack how to cook and it had gone over about as well as expected. Now he was virtually banned from the kitchen unless Reyes was there monitoring and babysitting his every move or they risked burning the whole camp down.

“I brought it with me from California. Managed to keep a decent crop as I moved east. Seasoning is essential to good cooking.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Gabriel snickered and reached to mess up Jack’s hair. The blonde yowled and lunged away while desperately trying to keep his corn cob in his mouth, laughing into his food as he was man-handled. “Oh, you love it,” Gabriel grinned and settled back in his chair to eat.

Jack regained his composure and they both ate in quiet after that, the familiar sounds of the rough-housing in the mess hall and the ping-pang of recruits testing their aim at the range making for pleasant ambient noise. It was warm out and Jack was beat but full of good food and in good company. His life could be trialing, the daily ins and outs of being a Gunner not always easy to manage, but he considered himself happy, and nights like these reminded him why.

“So, how do you like the new kid?” Gabriel asked after they’d finished eating and had been sitting a while, letting their meal rest. He was playing with a large combat knife, twirling it the way he did when he was lost in thought.

“The Deadlock kid?” Gabriel nodded and Jack offered a noncommittal shrug, which earned an annoyed little tut. Reyes always hated it when Jack showed lack of real interest in his business. “He’s trouble, if you ask me. But you never take my advice, so it’s not even worth mentioning.”

“Trouble?” Gabriel grumped. “What the hell do you mean trouble?

“He’s not Gunner material, Gabe.”

“Yeah, well, I’d argue we’re not much, either.”

They’d been in the Gunners together for over a decade, closing in on eleven years soon. Reyes had signed on as a Conscript, and a year later when Jack arrived to the Commonwealth and they’d by chance crossed paths, Gabe had been eager to convince him to sign up. After a year of hell in the Gunner’s Super Soldier program—a failed attempt to utilize a pre-war “super soldier serum” made by the U.S. government to create a wave of specialized soldiers—they’d been made Lieutenants and offered their own watchpoint. They’d settled in a pre-war neighborhood called Sunshine Tidings and turned it into a fortified camp from where they could take jobs and build up their own squads.

Neither of them had ever really embraced the Gunner way of life but had managed to fit themselves into the group, standing apart from the rest of them without the stupid facial tattoos but still being connected to the militia by experience, titles and banners. They still accepted orders from the higher-ups and occasionally traded supplies with other Gunner operations, but Blackwatch was their own little world, and most of the other Gunners made point to avoid them. Gabriel and Jack were a team, and together they were practically unstoppable.

“Fair,” Jack sighed. “But do you really think he belongs here?”

“I like him,” Gabriel decided, picking corn from his teeth with the tip of his knife and still somehow looking charming. “He stays.”

“All right, all right. It’s not like I have much say in the matter, anyways,” Jack smirked and arched a cynical brow. “You never listen to me. Ever. _Senior Lieutenant Reyes_.”

Gabriel rolled his amber eyes at the title drop. “You know that I value your opinion,Jack. Even when it’s the wrong one. Which, let’s face it, is often.”

“Rude,” Jack chuckled.

“But with all seriousness, the kid’s been manipulated by circumstance. He deserves the same we got.”

“And what do we do if he’s a rotten apple?” Jack turned his eyes to gaze at the white and blue specks against the satin black. It was a full moon and the Commonwealth’s sky was alive with silvery lights. Even in the radioactive haze and the rubble and the skeletons littering the disfigured landscape, it was beautiful.

“Then I’ll kill ‘im,” Gabriel shrugged. “Simple as that.”

Jack’s cerulean eyes dropped back towards his friend. “Simple as that, huh?”

“Yes, Jack. Simple as that.”

“Hm. Seems a waste.”

“I would’ve killed him back there with the rest of them if I didn’t think he was a good fit. Have a little faith in my taste of men, Morrison.”

Jack shot him an incredulous look but Gabriel was waiting for it, shining another fanged smile that melted Jack’s bones to putty. He tried to hide the flush rising to his cheeks with a roll of his eyes, but it only made the wolf rumble out a low, predatory snicker. “Don’t be gross, Reyes.”

“I was joking, Jackie, Christ. Besides, he ain’t my type,” Gabriel grunted as he stood. “I much prefer blondes.” Before Jack could sputter at him, the Latino was already sauntering towards the bathhouse to get cleaned up for the night. “Thanks for doing the dishes, cariño!”

Jack ran his palms over his face and sank in his seat, mewling pathetically over the soft sound of the radio.

Gabriel was going to eat him alive.

 

To Jack’s surprise, the new recruit showed up early to training. He was still in the same scruffy clothing but looked clean and satisfied. Gabriel must have fed him already. The dark-skinned Gunner was already there, dressed in his black armor, hood pulled up over his wavy black hair to block out the summer rain sprinkling down in warm droplets. It wasn’t yet heavy enough to justify an umbrella.

“Morning, Morrison,” Gabriel greeted without turning.

Jack didn’t bother to ask how he’d heard him as he stepped into place at his right. Gabriel was hard as hell to sneak up on and he’d long-since given up trying. “Good morning, Commander Reyes. How’s the new trainee going?”

“He’s got food in his gut, so that’s a start. We just did some shooting down at the range while it got settled. Can’t have him throwing up.”

McCree was still in civvies and needed to learn how to stand at alert and all of the bells and whistles that came with being in Reyes’ little pack, but Gabriel always worked to win the heart of his recruits before starting with that. And Jack pretty much always ended up with that role, anyways. Gabriel wasn’t the best at getting people in-line, unless it involved a lot of screaming. “Boss sure cooks a mean pancake.”

Jack glanced at his companion, eyebrow arched and met with another of those smug grins. “Boss?”

“I like it. The kid’s got a nice way of talking, don’t you think? All the _yalls_ and _yonders_. I can’t get enough of it." McCree pouted and Gabriel just laughed at him again before patting him roughly on the head with one of his big hands. “Now then, mijo, if you’re food’s settled, it’s time we get to business.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the teenager grumbled and fixed his hat. “Whatever you say, boss…”

“Damn right, whatever I say,” Gabriel jabbed a finger to his left. “I want ten laps around the camp and then we’ll put your scrawny ass on the training course before we start weights. That’s ten complete laps, Jesse. If I find out you’re whussin’ out on me, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Yes sir, boss sir.” McCree offered a sarcastic salute before he jogged off, sticking a middle finger in the air as he turned the corner.

“Charming,” Jack groused, his nose wrinkling.

Gabriel beamed out a wide, proud grin. “He’s fucking adorable and you know it. You’re only jealous none of your recruits even come close.”

“I would have picked something more like ‘crass’ or ‘juvenile,’” the blonde grumbled, “but sure. I guess ‘adorable’ works, too.”

“Oh, relax, Jackie. You know I’ll get the brat in shape before long.” Of course Jack knew he would. He always did. Gabriel excelled at picking and molding his team. As unusual a group as Gabriel threw together, his squads always flowed well as a unit, and they always got the job done. Always. “He needs to adjust to his new environment and then I’ll make sure to reign in his attitude. He’s worth if, if nothing else but for that damn fine shot of his. I’ve never seen anything like it, Jack. The kid never misses. It’s crazy. He can shoot someone between the eyes from a hundred yards. He dropped three of my guys like they were nothing.”

“So he’s a good shot,” Jack shrugged. “It won’t mean anything if he can’t be controlled.”

“You let me worry about that, cariño,” Reyes purred pensively while running his fingers through the coarse hair on his chin. Jack was always a little bit jealous of the Latino’s scruff. He could barely get a five-o-clock shadow going and a beard was always out of the question. “I’ll break the little coyote before long.”

Jack’s eyebrow tilted. “What is with you naming people after animals?”

“I like animals. Fucking fight me.”

“Well,he’s about as gangly as a waste mutt, so I suppose the nickname suits him, at least.”

“He’s got a good frame to start with, and I’ll get some meat on his bones before long.” Gabriel offered another one of his vicious smiles, planting a warm buzz in the back of Jack’s skull that nearly made him turn away. “A good diet and exercise and he’ll be filled out before you know it. Once I’ve earned his trust and you’ve whipped him into a well-mannered little nerd, he’ll make one hell of a soldier.”

“You don’t think he’ll run?”

“Naa,” Gabriel shook his head, casual and confident, before scowling at the sky when a large droplet hit the tip of his nose.

Jack was reminded of the first time he’d seen the soldier caught in a storm. They’d just started a northward march towards Boston and had been caught in the wide-open between camps. While Jack had eagerly soaked up the cool reprieve from the mid-September heat, Reyes had just stood there looking miserable and endearingly furious, stalking Jack with his hungry brown eyes as the blonde laughed and twirled in the rain.

Things hadn’t changed much.

Jack smiled and raised the palm of his hand to meet the rain as it began to pour, blinking the heavy droplets from his eyes while Reyes pretended not to be watching.

“The kid’s loyal as a dog,” Gabriel’s smooth voice was laced with annoyance as the rain soaked into his beanie. “He’s just scared. Mostly of you, of course. Everyone knows I’m the nice dad, of the two of us.”

 _“Right,”_ Jack trailed. “I’ll remember to remind them of that when you’re blowing crater-sized holes through peoples’ chests with not one but two shotguns.” He dropped his eyes from the clouds and sighed when the teenager come around the corner and stick his tongue out at them as he passed and rounded off again. “You really did it this time, Gabe.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel grinned, looking proud and eager and brimming with something hedging on paternal. “Yeah, I think I did, too.”

 

Jack had to hand it to Gabriel—the kid turned out all right, after all.

McCree met and even exceeded Jack’s expectations. He showed up early to his morning training, put in some genuine effort, and had begun a metamorphosis from back-talking child to a fully-fledged soldier in the course of a couple months. “Yes sir,” and “no sir,” were staples in his vocabulary now, though he continued to call Gabriel “boss,” but so long as Gabe was okay with it, Jack wouldn’t protest. The teenager was still fiery and sarcastic and had a penchant for sass, but the Lieutenants had successfully planted the seeds of devotion and respect. And he really was an absolutely amazing shot with that damn six-shooter of his.

“Think he’s ready?”

It was lunch. Gabriel had made fajitas and they were probably some of his best work to-date. Jesse had helped him, always eager to please and show off for his mentor, like Gabe were his long-lost father. Turned out the kid was a pretty good cook, even by Gabriel’s standards, and they’d often be seen together working the next meal plans during their breaks.

Jesse had very quickly risen from being the standoffish new recruit to one of Gabriel’s favorites, and Jack hadn’t yet decided how he felt about the gratuitous amount of time the pair were spending together. The Latino had always sidled up to Jack several times a day to harass him about this or that and make some attempts at flirting and making Jack thoroughly uncomfortable, trying to see how deep a shade of beet he could bring to Jack’s face, but he’d been bothering Jack less and less, focusing his energies entirely on Jesse.

“If you think he is,” Jack shrugged vaguely between hearty bites.“He’s put forth a lot of effort, for sure. And he definitely works hard to impress you.”

“He’s a good kid,” Gabriel affirmed as he watched Jesse diligently clean the stove. “Devoted as hell, too. I told you he’d work out.”

“You sure did.”

“You don’t like him, though. Do you?”

Jack nearly choked on his steak, forcing it down before arching a startled brow at the accusation. Gabriel was looking at him, the amber-browns of his eyes penetrative. “Why would you say that?”

“I know you well, Jack Morrison,” he leered,“and I can certainly tell by now when you do or don’t like someone. You have a fucking awful poker face.”

“I do not!”

“You do, Jack. It’s awful. Just the worst. Like…astonishingly, absurdly terrible.”

Jack rolled his eyes and took another bite of his food. “Well, think that as you might, I think your recruit is fine. McCree has proven himself to be both a capable and dependable soldier. He’s a good fit for your team, Gabe. I mean it.”

Gabriel continued to hawk at him, his eyes clouded by a familiar predatory glaze that had Jack squirming in his seat. “But not for yours.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re implying that he’s not suited for your ranks. That he’s not good enough for you.”

“Jesus, Gabe. What the hell are you prattling on about?”

“I’m not _prattling_. I’m making observations about my best friend being a tightass.” The fog of tension between them abruptly dissipated when Gabriel stole Jack’s fork and wrenched it behind him.

“Hey!” The blonde lunged across the table to grab at it like they were school-children, but Gabriel only shook his head and leaned back in his chair.  “Gabriel! Come on!”

Their soldiers watched with some amusement as the hardened Lieutenants played their juvenile game, while Jack desperately tried to keep his coat from draping into his meal.

They were always like this, fussing and arguing and fighting over trivial things that made them look petulant and half their age, but it was their dance and no one dared interrupt it.

“Not so fast, cariño,” Gabe wagged a bantering finger. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you so we can fix it and we can go back to being good little boyfriends, hm?”Gabriel’s fanged grin widened with satisfaction as Jack’s face flashed red.

“Don’t get the soldiers worked up, Reyes,” the blonde grumbled. “You know they talk.”

“Because you want me to bend you over the ta—?”

“Finish that sentence, Reyes,and I’ll stab you through the throat with my spoon.”

Gabriel burst into laughter and finally proffered the fork, which Jack snatched and used to spear belligerently at his food. “Oh relax, you big blonde baby. Christ, you’re in a mood today.”

“Everything okay, boss?”

Jack’s jaw clenched when Jesse strolled towards to their table, and a knowing light kindled in Reyes’ amber eyes. “Perfect,” Gabriel grinned up at the befuddled teenager. “Things are perfect. How about you sit beside me for lunch, Private McCree?”

“Private?” Jesse squawked as he was jerked by the hem of his stupid vest to sit beside his commander. “You mean…you’ve decided to let me on?”

“Commander Morrison and I talked about it and we both think it’s time,” Gabriel nodded and gave the smiling youth a parental pat on the head before pushing the brim of Jesse’s hat down over his face so playfully that Jack wanted to scream. “Ain’t that right, Lieutenant?”

“Right.” Jack shoveled more food into his mouth.

“He was just telling me how great you’ve been doing and how well you’ve acclimated to the team,” Gabriel purred. Jack didn’t want to give in to his bait but couldn’t repress a low growl from rumbling thunderously through his chest, and that did nothing but stoke the heat in Gabriel’s dark eyes.

“He was?” McCree blinked between them, like he were sensing he were let out of a joke. “Here I thought he sort’f, you know…hated me.”

“Morrison’s like that to all the new guys. Under the drill-sergeant exterior, he’s a total softie. Don’t get me wrong, he’ll blow your head clean off with a rifle if he thinks you’re due it, but he’s also a good man that would die dragging wounded off the battlefront. I know, because I’ve seen it. Jack will protect you same as everyone else. The man’s a hero.”

“Okay, okay,” Jack grinned, embarrassed. “Enough. Private McCree, welcome to Blackwatch. I’m certain that Lieutenant Reyes will make a good commander for you.”

“Well…golly… Thanks!” McCree beamed, looking a good bit younger than his age suddenly. The teenager released a throaty yelp of surprise and frustration when he was caught in Gabriel’s muscular arm. He squirmed and fit as the Lieutenant pressed a fist into his hat. “Boss, no! Not the hat!”

“Tomorrow you have first watch, brat,” Reyes sniggered, still grinding his knuckles into McCree’s hat, and Jack had to press his lips together to keep from laughing.

“Yes sir!” he squeaked and was released. Jesse frowned and removed his hat, punching the inside in attempt to fix it as his commander chuckled and ruffled his shaggy brown hair. “I’ll be on time, boss. Swear it.”

“You’d better, or I’ll feed you to Morrison. Now eat your fajitas, mijo.”

“Right, jefe…”

Jack couldn’t stand the pride swelling in Gabriel’s handsome face, expectant and hopeful as he smiled down at the fussing boy.

He couldn’t stand it.


	2. The Arrow In My Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's jealousy becomes more evident when he and Gabriel take Jesse on a mission to deal with a raider gang and they get a bit more than expected.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: blood/gore, underage death

Summer came and went, followed by a mild fall and bitter winter before spring took a pitiful hold on the little greenery left in the Commonwealth. The roads were alive with the ashy blues of hubflowers in bloom and the sounds of animals looking for a good time.

It had been nine months since Gabriel had shown pity on the scrawny coyote, but Jesse had managed to find a place in the pack as his right-hand man. The young cowboy was eager to please while also willing to stand up for himself and was to alert quick Gabriel when he felt something was off. The kid’s instincts were nearly always spot-on. Luckily for the both of them, Jesse also knew better than to question Gabriel in full view of his peers unless he felt it important enough to risk the commander’s wrath.

Gabriel had certainly come to appreciate the recruit’s natural charisma, lingering sass and knack for making Morrison’s face flash red. Having a partner in the kitchen had also been pleasant, and Jesse was always bringing back food and new herbs to test out. A few of them had made some people break out in hives and one almost made Jack inflate into a human water balloon, but they’d had their share of culinary successes.

Things would be looking great if Jack wasn’t such a damn sourpuss all of the time.

At first, it had been cute to see Jack get easily worked up, but it was beginning to get in the way of their job. Jack always zeroed-in on Jesse, seeming to get off on calling the private out on the smallest of things and over-penalizing him. The blonde had tried to pretend that Jesse wasn’t on his radar but it was obvious to everyone by now that Jesse was on Jack’s shit-list. Jesse couldn’t figure out what he’d done to deserve it, but Gabriel knew better—Jack was jealous.

The revelation wasn’t an unwelcome one. After all, Gabriel was still working hard to get his repressed friend to a point where he could make a proper move on him. Eleven years of carefully-planned touches and lingering eye contact later and Jack was only now reaching the point where he didn’t run off and hide. Gabriel was patient but he was also ripe and ready for the blonde to get with the picture and climb him like an oak tree.

He was only a little ashamed to have set things up with McCree specifically designed to trigger his friend’s jealousy, but Jack hadn’t taken his bait. Instead of finally just grabbing Gabriel by the throat and kissing him like he was hoping, Jack had instead taken the energy and turned it on Jesse. If Gabriel didn’t do something about it soon, it threatened to spiral into a legitimate confrontation with the intent to cause real harm.

Gabriel had been in denial about how bad things had gotten until they were on a mission together to take out a group of local raiders. They’d appeared almost out of nowhere and were looking to start trouble, setting a small camp only a few miles south of Blackwatch. A passing Gunner group had taken notice and made certain to pass the information along, and like hell he and Morrison were going to tolerate a bunch of box-cutter-wielding idiots to make base so close. They had to go. This was Gunner territory. Blackwatch territory. _Their_ territory.

And so Jack and Gabriel made plans to clear the place out after sending scouts to count some heads. Reports came in that were only ten of the raiders on their soil, so Gabriel, Jack and Jesse would be plenty enough to take care of it. Jack had tried to convince him to stay behind, uncomfortable at the prospect of leaving the watchpoint without one of them there, but Gabriel was having none of it. This was just as much his business as it was Jack’s, and he frankly didn’t trust the blonde to be alone with Jesse and not kill one another.

Raider camps were always bloody messes but the amount of carnage was absurd. They had more than just nailed a few bodies to shack walls or put heads on spikes to deter anyone from entering their turf—there were guts and viscera covering the dirt, and the stench of it turned the sweet spring air foul. Gabriel covered his sensitive nose with his handkerchief a good half a mile from the camp, which Jack and Jesse imitated once they could pick up the rancid scent on the breeze.

“Christ,” Jesse’s voice pitched nasally through his pinched nose. “This is all sorts’a foul…”

“I think that’s putting it mildly,” Jack fought back a cough, his blue eyes tearing at the edges as the smell of death and rot stung their eyes. “I thought our scouts were exaggerating about the gore, but I think they were actually underselling it… I’ve never seen raiders this violent before.”

“They’re definitely looking to make a point, that’s for damn sure,” Gabriel agreed absentmindedly as he studied the small group. The three of them were hidden atop a low hill a few hundred feet away, just out of the view of the raiders that made their rounds. “They’re more organized than most raider gangs. Did you see the one report in to the weirdo with the bladed helmet?”

“Yeah,” Jack nodded, undoubtedly already working out a plan in that pretty head of his. “I saw. Looks like he must be in charge. It’s a bit disconcerting to see raiders this regimented. They’re honestly acting more like Gunners than raiders.”

Fuck, he was so pretty that it was almost distracting. Gabriel enjoyed the quiet little gazes he earned on outings like these, when Jack was too focused on the task at hand to see the way Gabriel raked his hungry eyes over him. He wasn’t wearing the blue coat today, having been convinced that it would be too flashy for this sort of mission, and was down to his black under-armor and breastplate. Gabriel would have sworn that the commander was wearing those tight blue-jeans with the rip in the left ass-pocket as punishment for bringing the twerp along.

“I dunno. We were pretty organized back in Deadlock,” Jesse peered through his binoculars, his brown eyes not nearly as strong as theirs. “Had bosses and a hierarchy and everything. Well, we did, before the boss came in and blew off the faces of all my friends.”

“They were all assholes and you know it,” Gabriel grunted, still scouring the camp below.

“Weren’t much my friends, neither,” Jesse commented dryly. “All right, I can take out six’f those half-wits at once if y’all can get me a clear shot.”

“Can you shoot at night?” Jack asked.

Jesse dropped his binoculars. “It’ll be a new moon tonight and there ain’t gonna be no light to shoot ‘em by. I could do it, if we can get a light on ‘em. Why? You wanna go in after dark?”

“Jack and I can see just fine—one of the many benefits of the damn chemicals Moira put in our veins.” They really needed to get the kid a damn night-scope, but they were expensive and hard to come by. “But I doubt the raiders will be able to see well after dark, so it’s the best bet to catch them by surprise.”

“Right, right… Y’all are superheroes or somethin’,” Jesse nodded. “I guess I forget sometimes. Hey, can y’all leap a building in one jump?”

“I can clear a fifteen-foot fence without any trouble,” Jack offered.

“Holy-moly! Now I gotta see that someday, Commander. The first time I saw the boss heal from a bullet wound ‘fore I was quick enough to even grab a stimpack, I thought I’d wet my britches.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re the best,” Gabriel masked his amusement behind a scowl. “Now can you settle down before you give us away?”

“Sorry, boss… I guess I’m just a bit on-edge, what with all the guts ‘n brains everywhere.”

“I’d say we’ve seen worse but it would be a lie,” Gabriel grumbled. “This is pretty fucking awful. Intel has it that these guys have just been killing settlers and taking hostages, but that they haven’t really been doing any traditional raiding. No attacking merchants. No hogging the roads. No hits on farms with the intention of taking anything of any real value aside from caps and ammo.”

“That’s mighty strange, boss.”

“They’re scouting,” Jack concluded.

“Probably,” Gabriel agreed. “I don’t like it. Particularly since they’ve been so brutal. Raiders are violent, sure, but this is a bit…over the top. They’re acting more like super-mutants.”

Jack’s expression dimmed. “I’ve counted three skulls too small to be adults.”

Gabriel’s stomach twisted at the implication.

“These fuckers are goin’ down,” Jesse quaked.

“Keep it down, mijo. We’ll take care of them but we need to be smart about this. They have us outnumbered three-to-one.”

“We go in after nightfall,” Jack decided. “There aren’t enough of them to handle lookout, make rounds, sleep and cook meals at the same time, especially not when they’re still making their camp. Jesse will wait here while you and I flank the camp and quietly take out the guards. Reyes, you can relieve any sleeping raiders’ heads from their necks while I sweep the back. I’ll toss a flash grenade and cause a distraction. Will that be enough light for you, McCree?”

“Should be, but I’ll need ‘em in my line’f sight.”

“We’ll take care of that,” Gabriel smirked. “But destroy the turrets first. They’re honestly more of a concern than a few idiots in leather.”

“Can-do, boss.”

“And under NO circumstances are you to leave your post. I mean it, mijo.”

“Yes sir. I’ll keep my keester parked right here ‘n wait for the signal ‘fore I pop their edgy heads off.”

“Good boy,” Gabriel ruffled some of the teenager’s messy hair. Jesse fussed and cursed and slapped at him with his hat before pulling it back on, while Gabriel chose to ignore the scowl on his friend’s face as he watched them. “And now we wait.”

 

The sunset had been glorious, the golden ball imploding into a bloody show as it was struck down by the night, and a deep and engulfing blackness blanketed over the landscape. Stars twinkled above them, trying to illuminate the damaged earth with their silver glow, but their offerings weren’t enough to do more than outline shapes in the pitch—for most humans. Jack and Gabriel could still make out their environment with enough clarity to shoot a fly off a man’s nose at a hundred feet. It was rare that either of them were permitted to enjoy pure darkness these days, too sensitive to even the smallest bits of light for things to completely be blacked-out. Gabriel missed it sometimes.

Below them, the camp was growing rowdy, the leather-clad raiders laughing around a campfire and getting drunk and high while they exchanged stories of their recent kills. It was easy to see that Jesse was struggling to contain his rage, ready to unleash all of his youthful fervency on them, but he remained dutiful and quiet, patient for his cue.

Gabriel signed at his friend to get moving before tapping Jesse on the shoulder to make sure he knew they were heading out. The pair of soldiers prowled down the side of the hill, careful not to loosen any rubble as they moved, keeping low and attentive for any signs that they’d been spotted.

The raiders hadn’t set up any spotlights, but they had three turrets to deal with, two on the roof of their shack, and one on a rickety lookout bridge manned by a single raider at a time. Turrets were more sensitive than people were, able to detect movement even in the dark, if it were close enough, but Jack and Gabriel had more than enough experience to know how close was too close, how much dark would keep them covered, and how fast they could move without being detected.

Jack squatting a few feet from the drunken raiders to make a few hand signals. Gabriel signed back while his partner positioned himself for a clean kill, and then skulked into the wooden building.

A neck snapped, the sound silent to everyone but him and Jack. There was another, followed by the rustle of bodies being moved. Gabriel’s senses were sharp and on full alert, hearing every creak of the floorboards and exhaled breath like a symphony.

He hesitated as a raider rolled on a moldy mattress he was sharing with someone else, their bodies half-tangled. Gabriel slid his two combat knives from the sides of his boots, carefully surveilling the pair in the dark and waiting for them to settle again. One was asleep but the other was more alert than he seemed. After the raider’s breathing pattern had leveled out, he crept closer and drove the knives into their skulls, ending them before they could make a sound. The Gunner wiped his knives on the mattress before returning them to his boots. Jack would have heard it, and Gabriel waited for the signal.

 _Tch-click_.

Gabriel was already outside before the flash-grenade hit the ground, firing close enough to one of the raiders to drop him before they had the chance to draw their rifle while Jack open-fired on the ones at the campfire. Jesse made a series of precise shots and the turrets exploded, the light from the flames enough for the teenager to cleanly end the lives of three more raiders. Their bodies lilted and crumpled, the ones remaining too drunk and high and shocked to get off a shot before they too hit the dirt. It was all over in a matter of seconds, the roar of the explosions and cries of startled men and women abruptly ending as quickly as it had begun.

Jack approached the destroyed turret on the bridge and began to rummage through the metal to pick out some of the more valuable parts. Once a scavver, always a scavver.

Gabriel kicked some boots to make certain the raiders were all dead before stooping to pick up one of their guns for a closer inspection. It looked to have been constructed by hand, similar to pipe-rifles but a good deal more advanced. He emptied the chamber and rolled some of the rounds in his glove—7.62’s, certainly an odd choice. Rounds of these caliber were rarely sold and almost never found. He’d only seen them carried by a handful of vendors on his journey east from California.

He pocketed the rounds before grabbing a few more from another dead raider and handing it off to Jack. The blonde’s eyes narrowed, clearly sharing his observations about the strange choice of equipment. “You can come on down, Jesse,” Gabriel called over his shoulder after snatching a hugely-oversized knife off another body to replace the combat knife on his hip. More than most, Gunners never let anything go to waste.

“ _Hoo-ee_! That was awesome, boss!” Jesse stumbled down the uneven hill, tripping over some rocks in the dark but gracelessly managing to catch himself. “You guys really are somethin’ else!”

“It was just a small job, mijo. This was hardly a big deal.”

“Well, it looked pretty amazin’ from where I was standin’! But, uh…what about the rest’f ‘em?”

“What do you mean, the rest of them?” Gabriel tossed a second cutlass to Jack, who caught it at the handle and turned the home-made weapon in his hand pensively. “There were ten raiders and there are ten bodies on the dirt.”

“No,” Jesse trailed awkwardly. “There were thirteen. Aside from these ten, I saw three others while we were waitin’ for it to get dark. I figured y’all must’f seen ‘em, what with your super-powers ‘n all.”

The commanders exchanged uncertain but uneasy glances.

“No, mijo,” Gabriel shook his head. “We didn’t see anyone else.”

“Maybe you were imagining things,” Jack suggested. “It’s dark. You probably just saw a radstag.”

Jesse’s hair stood on end. “I know what I saw, Commander, and it wasn’t no damn radatag. Now, I’m ripe ‘n ready to admit that I can’t spot a fly in the pitch like y’all, but I ain’t blind neither. There was a big ol’ fella with a machete. He and two gals were skirtin’ the trees over yonder,” the teenager motioned non-descriptively at the forest.

“You’re positive, mijo?”

“Of course I’m positive! You don’t believe me?”

“How come Reyes and I didn’t see these other three?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Jesse rolled his eyes. “Maybe ‘cause you were too busy hatin’ me and the boss was preoccupied with starin’ at you’re ass?”

Jack’s haunches bristled furiously, but before Gabriel could get between them, his ears burned with a familiar _click_.

“HIT THE DIRT!” he tackled the pair just in time for a grenade to implode the shack, hot shrapnel and splinters cutting through the air. Shards of metal tore through his armor and embedded deeply into his muscles, searing him from the inside-out even while his skin began to knit itself back up. Jack was already up and moving before Gabriel could move, momentarily stunned by the blast. Jesse yowled and whined beneath him, squirming uncomfortably under his commander’s weight, but Gabriel remained there until there was a lull in the firefight and the ringing in his ears had dulled. “You all right, kiddo?” he winced.

“Y-yeah… Just… I think I busted my leg somethin’ bad.”

“Morrison?”

“I’ve lost visuals,” Jack answered mechanically, stalking around the camp with his rifle to his eye. “I counted at least eight and neutralized half of them before the rest moved into the trees.”

Gabriel had been with Jack long enough to know when he was smudging the numbers. “Weapons?”

“Semi-automatics. Same as the ones here. I counted a few grenades on their belts. Even without helmets, two of them took four shots to drop.”

“Four?” Gabriel balked.

“Could be wearing ballistic weave.” Jack offered a hand to help them both up before returning to his stiff scouting of the mangled tree-scape surrounding them. “Can you walk, Private McCree?”

Jesse hissed when he applied weight to his foot and shook his head. “I don’t think so… Feels like some crap got in my calf. Hurts like the dickens.”

“What about you, Reyes? Are you injured?”

“Relax, Morrison,” Gabriel tried to calm his friend with a hand to the shoulder. He could feel the blonde’s thick shoulder muscles relax under the touch, reassured by the physical contact. “I’m fine. I’m a bit burned and my armor’s fucked, but I’m all right, otherwise,” he lied. They’d dig out the metal from his back once they were home. Running with shrapnel in his body was never fun, but Gabriel had done it plenty of times before and Jesse didn’t need to know the details or he’d just get worried.

Jack eyed his partner shrewdly, knowing him well enough to recognize a lie. “We should to move out. They can see us but we can’t see them and we’re boxed in by the trees.”

“Though I hate to admit it, I have to agree with Commander Morrison,” Jesse agreed. “We’re sittin’ ducks out in the open like this, boss, but I won’t get far on this bum-leg.”

“I’ll carry you. Can you cover us, Jack?”

“You know the answer to t—” The blonde broke off his thought to whirl, fluidly snatching a grenade from the air and hurtling it back towards its sender without a bat of an eyelash. There was a brief moment of silence before another explosion of flames and the cries of confused raiders in the forest.

Jesse had no time to argue. Gabriel scooped his subordinate up in a single fluid motion and leapt up the side of the hill in two strides. “COME ON, MORRISON! ¡VAMONOS!”

“I’M COMING, I’M COMING!” Jack fired off a few shots before bounding after him.

There were definitely more than four raiders—their cries alone had alerted Gabriel to at least a dozen different voices, maybe more. With Jesse injured and virtually helpless, they’d need to either find a place to hide out and lose the group in the dark, or head back to camp where they had backup, and Blackwatch was a good few miles away. He couldn’t just put the kid down and leave him alone to finish the group off, and Gabriel didn’t trust Jack to do it alone. Not that the guy was incapable of it; Jack was just as skilled as he was. But it was a house-rule that they didn’t split up unless absolutely necessary. Splitting up always got someone killed. Always.

“Where we goin’, boss?” Jesse smiled through the pain but Gabriel knew he had to be hurting. “Back home?”

“Too far. They’ll round us off by then if they’re any good, and I have this stinking suspicion that they are.”

“So…what’s the plan?”

“We find a defense point and try to shake them off. If they find us, we stand our ground. Funnel them in one by one, if we have to.”

“Well we killed their pals pretty easy. This shouldn’t be any different.”

“You’re wounded, you dumb little shit. ”

“My ankle’s wounded, not my hand,” Jesse defended. “I can shoot just fine.”

“If we have to protect you, it’s not going to be so simple, Jesse. Now stop talking so I can find us a fallback position.” The brunette pouted but Gabriel pretended not to notice, keeping his focus on looking for a place to lay low. With any luck, they’d just lose them in the dark.

“Over there,” Jack redirected his path with the expectation that Gabriel would match. The blonde led them into an abandoned parking garage outside of a wrecked theme park train station. “We should have good cover in here.”

Gabriel carefully set the teenager on the concrete before kneeling to check McCree’s bum leg. He made a vertical cut through the bloody pant-leg with his new combat knife, ignoring Jesse’s fussing as he turned the injured limb for a better look. There were lacerations and some burns around his ankle, leading up to a deep gash in his calf that was already swollen with puss.

“How bad is it, boss? Give it to me straight. I can handle it. Am I gonna lose my leg?”

“Oh, pipe down, you little drama queen. You’re going to be fine, but I have to remove the shrapnel before I can stimpack it. This is gonna hurt,” he warned. “A lot.”

“A-all right,” Jesse mewled nervously as his commander readied a stimpack, pulling the lid off with his mouth and spitting it into a pile of garbage.

Gabriel set the stimpack down and produced a bottle of vodka from his backpack, dousing his fingers and knife in it. It was all he could do to prevent any infection in the open field like this. Jesse would need a medic when they got back, but for now this would have to do. “Jack, go keep lookout while I treat our love-child. He should be good to go after about fifteen minutes or so after the chems kick in, but I want to keep a close eye on him until then.”

“Sure,” the blonde nodded curtly, regarding them with something that resembled jealousy before he jogged up the stairwell. “I’ll have my radio, so call if you need me.”

Gabriel sighed before situating Jesse’s damaged leg in his lap, gratuitously-oversized knife cleaned and in-hand. “I hope you’re not allergic to Med-X, kiddo.”

“I’m not,” Jesse mumbled apprehensively while trying not to watch Gabriel set his things out. “Makes me a bit queasy, though. And sometimes I pass out. And by sometimes I mean most of the time.”

“Great. You ready?”

“Y-yeah… Yeah, I’m ready. You do what you gotta do, jefe.”

“Let me know if you need a stick to bite or something, because I’m going to need you to keep that big mouth of yours shut. Feel free to grab hold of me, if you have to, but I need you to keep still or this will just hurt more.”

Jesse swallowed and nodded bravely, pulling his hat low on his face to hide his expression before Gabriel began to work. “All right, boss. Give it to me.”

The moment Gabriel’s finger put pressure to open the wound, Jesse’s hand had clasped on his shoulder and given him a bruising squeeze, but he kept going. “You’re okay, mijo,” he encouraged before digging a finger into the tissues.

Jesse bit on curses and clawed uselessly at Gabriel’s shoulders and back, digging bloody marks into the exposed skin and clinging to his commander for life. Even with all of his writhing, Jesse managed to keep his leg still.

Once Gabriel found the large splinter of wood embedded into the boy’s calf, he took meticulous care to remove it and the smaller pieces before washing the wound out with more alcohol while Jesse tried to catch his breath. “I got it,” Gabriel hushed him. “The worst is over. You did great, mijo. Lie back for me, all right? I’ll give you some chems and you can sleep it off.”

The teenager complied, covering his face with his forearm to hide his inflamed eyes while Gabriel stuck him with a stimpack and then the Med-X.

Jesse’s breathing leveled out as the drugs took effect. Gabriel monitored him, watching his dark eyes glaze over as the chem heavily sedated him while it went to work patching his injury and dulling the pain. He’d have some new scars but no severe or lasting damage, which was the best the kid could really ask for. It would just be another story etched into his skin.

Gabriel didn’t scar anymore.

The Gunner pushed some of Jesse’s damp hair from his forehead to admire the peaceful look on his face. The kid really was handsome. Boyish, but handsome. He was going to grow in to quite a man. “You’ll be okay, mijo,” he promised. “Rest-up. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Jesse mumbled nondescript sounds in drugged-out response and his commander stood to check outside.

The station was eerily quiet, not even the sounds of animals in the vicinity. The silence was uncomfortable. He looked up to spot the familiar figure of his partner on the concrete bridge, pacing and glancing around in the mechanical way he did when on full-alert. Gabriel tucked back into the garage to dig out his radio from his bag, grimacing at the hiss of sound when he turned it on. “How are things looking up there, boyscout?”

There was a moment of hesitation before the radio blinked and he got a reply, “I’ve seen four moving in the forest, about a quarter of a mile out. They moved in to the open and made a sweep about a hundred yards before turning back and following the main road.”

“So they wanted you to see them,” Gabriel read between the lines, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I think they know exactly where we are and are preparing to attack.”

“How many were there really, Jack? Back at the camp?”

“I counted approximately twenty-five but it could be as many as thirty.”

“THIRTY?” Gabriel half-yelled into the radio before reigning in his alarm. “Shit… Holy shit... Morrison, how the hell did we fuck up this badly?”

“My guess is that they called in some reinforcements.”

“When the hell would they have had a chance to do that? Before or after we blew off their faces?”

“We never saw the leader,” Jack reminded, keeping his voice low. “The one with the blades on the helmet.”

Gabriel leaned out of the garage again, watching the blonde stare out into the landscape. “You think he slipped out? We counted ten bodies.”

“Yeah, and none of them wore that helmet.”

Gabriel growled and ran a hand over his face, the stress of the situation becoming amplified by his growing concerns over such a violent raider gang displaying battle-strategy. “So they knew we were there and he somehow replaced himself with a stand-in for the body count? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. Smart, but not smart enough to plant the helmet on whoever replaced him.”

Gabriel cursed under his breath as he paced back and forth in the undamaged section of the garage, kicking a paper cup into a pile against the wall. “How could they have possibly seen us, Jack?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think these are any ordinary raiders. If they can lay low enough for our men to misjudge and miscount them, can spot us, can fool us in to thinking we had them dealt with…they’re very dangerous. And most raider gangs don’t get anywhere near this big. We need to neutralize them as quickly as possible before they become a more serious threat to our actual camp or to anyone else in the area.”

“Agreed,” Gabriel grumbled and ran a hand through his bangs to push them out of his eyes.  “If Jesse hadn’t seen them, we’d have been fucked

“He got lucky.”

He really didn’t have time to be acting like a middle-schooler, so Gabriel pretended not to be exceptionally annoyed by his partner’s juvenile levels of resentment. “Do you have any ideas in that pretty head of yours about how we should handle this situation?”

“We kill them.”

“Gees, Jackie, why didn’t I think of that?”

“I can snipe from up here and you can handle any raiders that manage to get past me. I’ve got plenty of rounds. We’ve handled two-dozen bodies alone before and we’ll do it again.”

“Need I remind you that we have wounded, Lieutenant Morrison?”

There was a long, disturbing pause. “I know you’re not going to like to hear this, Reyes, but tough.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, fucking tough,” Jack’s voice grit punitively through the static. “Private McCree knew what he was signing up for when he took this job. If he dies, he dies. That’s the reality of the world, Gabe. People die.”

“Jack, you’re being completely fucking ridiculous,” Gabriel snarled into the radio. “I know you’re jealous but this is seriously beginning to get out of hand.”

Jack barked a single, begrudging laugh. “Jealous? Oh, spare me, Reyes. I’m not jealous of your stupid cowboy. I ju—” shots shattered through their conversation.

“SHIT!” Gabriel startled and grabbed his shotguns, pressing his half-naked back to the concrete as a firefight broke out. Guess this conversation would have to wait.

“Wh…what’s going on…?” Jesse shifted groggily against the newspaper stand he’d been leaned against.

“Go back to sleep, mijo,” Gabriel ordered calmly and checked his rounds. “Daddy will be back after he blows some holes through a few deserving chests, okay?”

“Mng… Okay, jefe…”

His brown eyes lingered on the teenager, watching McCree lean against the newsstand and go still again. Once certain Jesse had passed out, Gabriel rolled off the wall and ran into the open.

As long as he had breath in his lungs, no one was going to kill his stupid mutt but him.

Jack was darting around on the concrete overhead, ducking between the fusillade of automatic gunfire and popping up to get three or four perfect shots off, dropping a couple of raiders at a time. Gabriel could see the scrawny figures rushing through the dark, barreling down upon them with surprising levels of aggression. Some of them still made an effort to move through the dark like they couldn’t clearly be seen by the two pairs of hyper-sensitive eyes on them but the rest were pressing forward with wild conviction.

Jack continued to lob their grenades back, setting off a series of explosions in the distance that set the tree-line aflame. The raiders seemed to get the picture and stopped throwing the damn things, but not until their own weapons had imploded a good third of their numbers. They had to be below twenty bodies by now.

Gabriel ran to meet the raiders on foot, rolling and careening to avoid their gunfire before throwing himself in the middle of them and began to fire his shotguns in a hailstorm of steel and lead. Five of them went down to the spray of violence before a lucky one jumped him from behind. She coiled an arm around his neck and jabbed a box-cutter deep into the meat of his right shoulder, snarling like an animal. She was small, thin, and muscular. She couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen. Many of the rest of the figures circling him, hissing and spitting and cackling like a pack of hyenas, weren’t much larger.

“Holy shit,” he rumbled as a hot ache throbbed down his neck and turned to fire into his arm. “You’re kids. You’re all just fucking kids.” Gabriel snarled and nearly lost grip on one of his shotguns when she twisted her knife. He could have thrown her to the concrete and crushed in her skull, but the realization that she was barely even a teenager had the soldier hesitating. The raider took advantage and stabbed another knife between his ribs, wrenching it and giggling with disquieting levels of murderous glee as he felt his lung fill with blood. Well shit. “Right about now would be great, Morrison!”

“Then stop prancing around like a jackass so I can get a clear shot!” Jack screamed, followed by a series of automatic gunfire against the concrete.

The knife in his ribs was ripped out before being lanced into his kidney, and Gabriel released a pained groan before dropping to his knees. His flesh worked to mend but couldn’t keep up with the demands of his damage, still weakened from the explosion. The metal shards under his skin sliced through his muscles anytime he moved and embedded deeper into his body, draining Gabriel of his stamina.

“You’re going to make me a mighty fine scarf, old man.”

“Back off, Nisha,” a male’s voice broke through her sniggering.

“You never let me have any fun, Sledge.” She released her hostage and snatched his shotguns, tossing them to her giggling teammates.

 “Shut the fuck up, brat. I want to get a good, long look at a man who can leap a hill.” Sledge squat and put a hand to Gabriel’s chin to raise it, forcing him to make eye contact with the strange metal helmet. He tilted his head, blinking a pair of hazy, dark brown eyes behind the holes in the skull-like design. “Well, well, well,” his chapped lips curled their edges into a devilish grin. “Hello there, handsome. God damn. Y’r a pretty one, ain’t yuh?”

“Thanks,” Gabriel spit blood at the man’s feet. “But sorry, pal, you’re not really my type. I sort’f have a thing for blondes.”

“GABE!” Jack screamed overhead but cursed repeatedly as he was forced to drop before getting off a shot.

“Your boyfriend’s pretty easy to pin down when he ain’t throwing grenades back at us. Pretty fuckin’ good party-trick, though. I’m impressed.”

“So, you’ve been killing families and kidnapping their children to use as child soldiers.”

“What can I say? I like kids,” Sledge shrugged. “I consider m’self a sort’f…new-world philanthropist, if you will, takin’ these brats in under my wing. Feedin’ ‘em. Givin’ ‘em a roof over their cute li’l heads. Bein’ a father figure, y’know? Givin’ ‘em a real chance at family.”

“Family. Right.”

“Damn right, family. Brings a tear to my eyes, really, seein’ my darlin’ li’l Nisha take on a full-grown super-soldier. Reyes, right? Gabriel Reyes? Soldier number twenty-four from that ol’ Gunner program, hm?”

Gabriel’s guts twisted. How the hell did this freak know about that? The SEP program had been on the down-low, only known about by a few Gunner factions. They had a leak. “You’re a god damn piece of human trash, manipulating children like this.”

“Oh, com’on, Gabie. I don’t think we’re all that different.”

Gabriel’s blood chilled when Jesse’s dead weight was dumped on the ground beside him, close enough to hear the reassuring _ba-bump, ba-bump_ in his chest. He was still out cold from the Med-X, which was probably for the best. If things went south, he’d be too high to know what had happened. Not that Gabriel was about to let this little ‘family’ hurt his. “Let him go.”

Sledge stood and wagged a finger. “Now, now, now. I don’t really think you’re in a good place to be givin’ any orders, handsome. I have to send a message to the rest of the Gunners, y’see? Lay down some laws ‘round here. But I’ll tell you what,” the raider circled, “since you did me such a solid, gettin’ those Deadlock fuckers off my back, I’ll let one’f you go. You hear that, pretty-boy?” Sledge yelled over the gunfire, holding a hand up to make his soldiers stop shooting long enough to offer his proposal. “It’s Jackie, right? You can pick one’f ‘em, Jackie-boy! The other one’s head goes home with me!”

He was unarmed, injured, and Morrison was about to call for the end of Jesse’s life. Things couldn’t be much worse. Gabriel needed to keep the asshole talking to give Jack time to come up with something, anything, to get them out of this mess.

“Not going to try to just ‘adopt’ the kid, yourself, eh?”

“Well, typically I might,” Sledge dropped his attention towards the wounded Gunner, “but this one’s a bit too old to be trained properly. They’re a problem at this age, but I’m sure y’know how hard it is bein’ a single dad in a world as fucked up as this. The only other option’d be to sell ‘im. Might still do that if your boyfriend’s cruel enough to put y’r pretty head on a plate. He’s got about a minute left ‘fore I get impatient ‘n cut off both y’r heads. A damn shame it’d be, though. You’d make a good pet if I could break you. And trust me,” Sledge squat to purr repulsively into the shell of Gabriel’s ear, “I’d break you, Lieutenant.”

“Oh?” _Just keep him talking. Buy Jack a few minutes_. “And how’d you do that?”

Gabriel nearly flinched when he felt a dirty hand run through his hair and tease his scalp. “Oh, I have my ways, darlin’—and ain’t none’f ‘em pleasant f’r you.”

“This is bullshit,” Nisha snapped from the sidelines. “We should just kill them. Send their faces back to their men.”

Gabriel didn’t look up from staring at Jesse’s face but he heard the slap, Sledge having risen to correct her assertiveness and keep his soldiers in line.

“You’re not the boss here, yuh li’l shit. Keep that ‘n mind or I’ll cut that pretty tongue out’f your stupid whore mouth.”

“Right. Sorry.” Her dirty shoes shuffled from Gabriel’s field of view and she vanished into the small crowd.

Including their deranged leader, he counted nine bodies whispering and giggling in the firelight, and most of them were almost entirely focused on keeping Morrison down. All Jack needed to do was get into a position where he could kill Sledge and Gabriel could knock the rest of them out. He’d take some damage in the process, but he’d prefer not to kill the kids, if at all possible. Rehab for raiders wasn’t impossible, if they were young enough. In Gabriel’s experience, just about anyone could be saved if you were willing to put in the time and effort. Still, he wasn’t an idiot. If he had to kill them to protect Jesse and Jack, he’d gladly do it, but it wouldn’t help him sleep any better at night.

“Apologies for the brat. Nisha’s a bit fiery.”

“She’s pretty good with those knives of hers, is what she is.”

“Damn right she fuckin’ is. I taught the li’l shithead everythin’ she knows. Knives are so much more personal than guns. I mean, guns’r well ‘n all, but there’s just somethin’ special ‘bout bein’ so close to your prey. You can really smell their blood. See the lights go out in their eyes. Knives’re just so…intimate.”

“Eh. They’re not bad. But I prefer shotguns, myself.”

“Two at a time, at that,” the raider sniggered. “Pretty ballsy ‘f yuh.”

“Yeah, well I’m a ballsy sort of guy.”

“Oh-ho-ho, I bet you a—” _thwak_.

Gabriel’s head lifted off the ground as the raider stumbled backwards from the impact, his squad on full alert. _Thwak, thwak, thawk_ —three more dropped, two silent and one screaming and wrenching on the floor, clutching a stick in her neck.

Arrows.

Sledge cursed loudly and yanked the arrow from his arm before another struck him in the shoulder, the point cleanly sticking out the other side and making him drop his oversized-knife. He seemed to take two more dropping bodies as a cue to bail because he made a mad dash for the tree-line, abandoning the troupe of youths to defend themselves while two of them ran after him. How fucking noble.

Gabriel rolled on top of Jesse, wrapping around his charge to protect him from any collateral damage as arrows reigned down and the sound gunfire echoed off the concrete. By the time it was over, the sweet spring air was soured by the smells of blood and ash, the pavement turned red by the blood of child soldiers left to die.

He was going to be sick.

Jack dropped to his knees in front of him. “Reyes! Shit! Reyes, are you all right?” The quiver in the blonde’s voice encouraged Gabriel to lift head from where he’d been tucked in Jesse’s shoulder. Jack smiled with relief but his expression promptly became stern. “God damn it, Gabe! Why did you hesitate?” He scolded while carefully maneuvering his friend to sit up. He ran his hands across Gabriel’s face, neck, shoulders, arms, checking him thoroughly for damage. His glove brushed the still-fresh laceration on Gabriel’s side, earning a weary grunt that had Jack’s eyes scrunching into pure orbs of cerulean fury. “You could have killed them and finished this before it escalated! What the hell were you thinking?!”

“They were kids, Jack,” Gabriel wallowed, his eyes moving over the scattered bodies.

“Kids with knives and guns and looking to gut you alive,” Jack scowled. “We’re damn lucky that the Shimadas were close enough to have seen the fight. They called me on the radio and offered assistance.”

The Shimadas? Shit. Gabriel had forgotten they were on their way to make a weapon delivery.

The Gunners often purchased weapons and did trades with the vaulties from 99, whose population was led by of family that had belonged to the notorious Yakuza gang. Gabriel was sure there was a story there worth telling but he hadn’t been brave enough to ask about it yet. The Overseer and head of the Shimada clan, Sojiro, occasionally made trips with his soldiers to ensure large or more valuable payloads were delivered safely.

Most vault-dwellers weren’t much of a threat. They were often pampered by their underground life or completely wrecked by the perverse things Vault-Tech had imposed upon the majority of their residents, but they were almost universally naïve and easily manipulated. But the Shimadas were no ordinary vaulties. They’d opened their doors a century ago and marched out into the wastes like they owned the damn place, armed to the teeth with high-grade military weapons and a no-shit-taken attitude. No one really knew where the blues got their weapons, but the Shimada family had made bank off of their trade, easily acquiring any food or materials they couldn’t grow or harvest for themselves and rising to become one of the wealthiest groups in the Commonwealth.

“Are you well, Gabriel?” Sojiro’s characteristically-deep voice carried as he approached. His blue-black hair was tied back out of his angular, handsome face with a gold sash that nearly reached his hip. The middle-aged Overseer was dressed in a pristine dark grey shirt, black vest and blue tie, ‘99’ etched in brilliant gold on the silk of his back. The nose of a purple dragon tattoo could just barely be seen peeking from the edge of his collar, and he was armed only with a bow and a sword.

Gabriel had always found the fact that Sojiro was a weapons-dealer that never seemed to use guns was just a bit ironic. He’d also think it was pretty fucking hilarious if the guy weren’t so damn amazing with those little sticks of his. Years ago, Gabriel had thought himself cute enough to challenge Sojiro to a contest to see who was the better shot, confident that his super-human eyes would impress the Overseer, and had promptly gotten his ass handed to him. The man was as remarkable with his bow as he was easy on the eyes. Luckily for them, Sojiro had been genial about the whole affair and Gabriel was certain that was what had solidified their relationship.

“Yeah, I’m all right,” Gabriel lied behind one of his best smiles. “It’s never been so good to see you, Sojiro. You really saved our skins this time.”

The Overseer offered a slender hand, clasping Gabriel’s palm to help him up. “I only did so because Lieutenant Morrison offered me five grand and a drink,” he chuckled warmly, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling.

“Only five-k? I’m worth more than that, Jack. I’m offended.”

“Not in those horrible pants you’re not.”

“Horr—Hey! I thought you said you liked camo!”

“Well, yeah. But not grey camo,” Jack’s face wrinkled.

“And just what the hell is wrong with grey camo?”

“It’s tacky.”

“TACKY?”

“Yes, Gabe. It’s tacky. You look awful.”

“You fucking take that back, Morrison.”

Sojiro grinned and shook his head at their friendly banter, his silk sash swaying elegantly behind him. He really was a beautiful creature, all sharp angles and smooth muscle and without a clumsy bone in his perfect body. But he was also a happily married father of two and Gabriel knew when to keep his gay hands to himself. Didn’t mean the man wasn’t some damn fine eye candy, though. “You should be more cautious, my friend.”

“Yeah. I just sort of dropped off when I realized I was fighting a bunch of kids. It…caught me off-guard.”

“Hmm. Yes. I understand your confliction and I am glad that we stumbled across you. The weather and roads were clear, so we arrived more than a day ahead than we expected to. We just so happened to notice the fire-fight off the main roads. It would seem that fate has been good to you today.”

A young man gracefully entered Gabriel’s field of view and knelt at Sojiro’s feet, eyes to the cracked pavement. “I regrettably lost sight of the leader and two other raiders, as they fled into the forest during combat. Shall I pursue them?”

“Thank you, Hanzo, but no. It’s important to know which priority to keep at the forefront. We should focus our efforts on escorting our payload and wounded to Blackwatch.”

“Understood, Father. I shall gather our arrows and return to guard the cargo.”

Gabriel watched the youth stand and begin to go about the chore of recollecting his arrows. He couldn’t be much older than Jesse and was dressed in the same clothing as Sojiro, complete with long hair tied by a silk sash, though he was decorated with brighter shades of blue. His form was sleek but solid, and a highly-detailed dragon coiled around what was exposed of his left arm in a rather remarkable sleeve tattoo, still red along the edges. It had to be relatively new.

Hanzo knelt to coerce an arrow from a raider’s back with his slender fingers. Sensing he was being watched, the heir’s dark eyes briefly met the Lieutenant’s, exposing the full fierceness harbored in their earthy depths before he turned them away again.

Holy shit. He was absolutely exquisite.

Gabriel knew he’d be facing an uphill battle to keep Jesse’s sticky fingers away if the brat ever caught sight of Hanzo’s stunning face, but the last thing he needed was for the coyote to get himself in some deep shit with the Shimadas for trying to grope Sojiro’s eldest son.

By the grace of God, Gabriel prayed Jesse remained unconscious for the ride home and that the archer kept his distance in the dark. “Hanzo—he’s your eldest son, right?”

“Yes,” the Overseer confirmed with a gentle nod. “I deem it important that my oldest son and heir to our clan have personal experience with what our men deal with day-in and day-out. It is valuable to have perceived it with his own eyes, rather than simply reading and responding to reports from behind a desk.”

“Makes sense. Is this his first time on the surface?”

“No, it is not, but it is the first time he has escorted a payload this far from home. I joined the caravan to ensure things went smoothly and to keep the edge off of my son’s nerves. Hanzo puts up a strong front but he is still uneasy in the outside world.”

“Well, I’m glad to finally meet him,” Gabriel smirked. “He sure takes after his old man.”

“I suppose that he does,” Sojiro’s face flushed proudly. “Genji much more resembles his mother. I’d say that my little sparrow is the lucky one, of the two,” he chuckled. “I do hope that you and Jack shall come visit us one day. I would very much like to introduce you.”

The Overseer had left an generously-open invitation for both Gabriel and Jack to visit 99, should they ever be in the north-east, but the pair almost never went out that far anymore, content to keep their ops close to the western border. Still, Gabriel would be lying if he said he didn’t want to check the place out. Working vaults were incredibly rare and made for interesting tours.

“I hope we get to meet your wife and younger son in the near future,” Gabriel nodded. “Speaking of kids, you think you’d be willing to let me park my brat on the back of your wagon?”

“Certainly. The boy is wounded and should rest, while able. I also expect you to sit and relax for the remainder of the journey. You should recuperate your strength from your many injuries.”

“It’s no big deal. Just a few scratches.” Gabriel rolled his shoulders but failed to suppress a cringe when metal shifted against his ribs.

Jack frowned critically. “Just a few scratches, huh?”

“I insist that you rest, Gabriel,” Sojiro placed a commanding hand on his shoulder, careful not to touch the still-mending wound. “Please do not make me knock you out.”

“Okay, okay, all right, ” Gabriel sighed loudly, unable to fight back with the weight of two pairs of gorgeous eyes. “Christ. I’m surrounded by hens.” He moved to pick Jesse up but Sojiro beat him to it, carefully cradling the wounded teenager as he headed back towards their caravan on the main road.

Eight vaulties were waiting for them, all well-armed and at alert while standing watch over two Brahmin and a wagon packed with weapons and gear. After years of working with the Shimadas, Gabriel and Jack were familiar with most of their guards, and they exchanged nods and waves of familiarity as the Lieutenants approached.

Hanzo was talking quietly with his father, head bowed respectfully while Sojiro laid Jesse on the back of their cart and covered him with a wool blanket. He was a disciplined warrior and the Overseer of a vault of dangerous gangsters, but he was also a father, and Gabriel had always admired his strength and propriety when handling children. If anyone could be sympathetic for Jesse’s situation, it would be Sojiro. Hanzo, on the other hand, seemed entirely displeased at the situation, seeming to make a point not to look directly at Jesse.

The Overseer waved his son off before motioning for the pair of tired Gunners to approach. “I am sending Hanzo ahead to alert your soldiers that we are bringing wounded. The rest of the journey shall only take a couple of hours, so please rest and allow us to keep watch.”

Gabriel watched the archer’s lithe silhouette vanish silently in the dark. “Are you sure he’ll be all right alone?”

“Hanzo can handle himself just fine,” Sojiro chuckled. “He’s only nervous when having to shield others. My son is a capable warrior, but he is not so good yet at teamwork. We’re working on it.”

“Ah.” Good. If Jesse woke up, Gabriel didn’t have to worry about swatting him off Hanzo with a damn newspaper.

“I’ll cover the back,” Jack offered. “Unlike my partner here, I’ve incurred no injuries.”

“Only because I took a fucking grenade for you, cariño,” Gabriel countered good-humoredly as he climbed onto the back of the wagon.

Sojiro chortled cordially and handed them each bottles of purified water. “I’m going to stand up front and see to it that the remainder of our trek is uneventful. Rest well, Lieutenant Reyes.” He offered them both a nod, ever-polite and charming as hell, before he strode towards the front and the caravan began to move.

“So… Are we going to talk about the fact that you were going to let them kill Jesse?”

“Oh, relax,” Jack rolled his perfect blue eyes, simultaneously annoying the living hell out of him and making Gabriel want to pull him into his lap. “I wasn’t going to let them kill your favorite new toy, Gabe.”

“Like hell you weren’t. And Jesse’s not a damn toy, Jack. He’s my right-hand man and you should have some god damn respect for him.”

“Fine, Reyes. You caught me. If I had to choose between you, of course I am going to pick the person I’ve known for over a decade. You’re my business partner, my peer, and my best friend. I’m not going to let you die, if I can help it.”

“And Jesse’s what?” Gabriel's tone ran coarse with frustration, struggling to keep his voice quiet so as not to wake the slumbering teenager behind him. “A spare? A sacrifice? Just someone to be thrown in my place when things look bad? Like that asshole did back at the camp?”

Jack’s hands tensed around the grip of his rifle, his gaze sparking with cold fire. “You know it’s not the same thing. Not even close.”

“Isn’t it, though? Jesse was wounded and unconscious, completely dependent on us—his acting commanders—to keep him safe because he was helpless, and you were going to just throw him to the fucking wolves! He’s one of our own, Jack. And if not one of OUR own, he’s one of MY own. You turning on my men like that is like a fucking arrow in my back.”

Jack’s blue eyes darkened, a dismissive snow clouding his gaze like static as he fell back in to cold-as-fuck soldier mode. It had always disturbed Gabriel just how easy it was for Jack to flip a switch in his head and turn off all human compassion and empathy. “I’m not going to say that I’d have regretted saving your life, Gabe.”

“You and I really need to have a heart-to-heart, Jack. Soon.”

The blonde turned away, playing sentinel and going quiet for the rest of the journey home.

Yeah. They definitely needed to have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Disciples play a small but important role in Gabriel’s arc, so I had to introduce Nisha a bit early.  
> It’s currently year 2267, if anyone cares to know. There will be several time skips as we make the march towards when Nate wakes up in 2287, some small and others significant.  
> Thanks for reading this weirdo crossover!


	3. The Lonely Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo babysits a drugged-out Jesse, Gabriel makes mistakes, and Jack faces some life-changing decisions.  
> This chapter has some of Hanzo’s POV and establishes a little bit about the Shimada dragons for later.  
> 

It was past three in the morning when Hanzo spotted his father’s silhouette coming down the main road, leading the caravan into Blackwatch. The archer dropped off the scaffolds he’d been scouting on and bowed his head in greeting. “I trust the journey was uneventful, Father.”

“We faced no further trials on the main roads. Is everything set up?”

“Yes, Father. The medics have been alerted and are ready to take the wounded. I have spotted no further raiders. Their Sergeant has sent a small party to clear the train station of any remaining hostiles as well as to gather any supplies left behind. He offered to split any goods they find with us in addition to the caps they agreed to pay for our assistance.”

“Good, good,” Sojiro nodded approvingly. “You’ve done well, Hanzo.”

The teenager suppressed a smile at the complement, always pleased when his father showed pride in his work. “Thank you, Father.”

“I am going to make social rounds and ensure the cargo is properly unloaded and processed.” His father moved to a corner against the scaffolds, tucking them aside for private conversation. Though they could very easily converse in their native language, speaking in a tongue their hosts did not would be rude. “In the meantime, I’d like you to see to it that their wounded soldier is kept company. I believe his name is Jesse.”

Hanzo felt the corners of his lips curve and betray his displeasure at the request. “Father, with all due respect, the child is in good hands with his medical officers. I have nothing to gain from escorting him.”

“Hanzo, my son, you have much to learn about the art of our business,” his scolding quiet but sharp. “Do not allow his youth or title to fool you—Jesse is fourth in line of command at the most powerful Gunner outpost in the Commonwealth. The Gunners are not to be underestimated and could very easily become a threat. My ‘friendship’ with the lieutenants ensures that Blackwatch, and lesser Gunners by association, will not turn hostile towards us should they be offered a job or bribe by our enemies. The safety of our people is well-worth the extra effort on my part, and this responsibility now also falls upon you.”

Hanzo dropped his gaze, dejected in the face of the reprimand. “Yes, Father. I shall escort him and ensure that he receives proper care.”

“See to it that you do. We leave at daylight.” Sojiro offered a stern glance to emphasize he was serious before he moved off to speak with the soldiers handling their payload.

Being left out of important business conversations to babysit a child wasn’t something that led Hanzo to a better mood, but his father had assigned him a task and he was going to take it as seriously as any other.

He approached the caravan and made his way towards the back where Lieutenant Reyes was being helped off the wagon by an exasperated but tender Lieutenant Morrison. Hanzo had been warned multiple times of their displays and not to mention it, particularly with Lieutenant Morrison, but it was virtually impossible not to notice. Their soldiers all seemed to take notice of this as well, grinning when the pair were preoccupied with their childish bickering, but none of them dared to bring any direct attention towards it. They were at least that wise.

Such shows of fondness were strange to Hanzo. His father was tender with his family, of course, but he was rarely open about it in company unless dealing directly with customers and looking to put on a friendly front. That much Hanzo could understand, but the way the two lieutenants interacted seemed remarkably genuine.

His father had stressed that they were, in fact, “ just friends,” something he found odd to make such a point of before but now made sense. He might have assumed they were a couple and made inappropriate commentary, otherwise.

Either way, it was none of his business.

“Good morning, Lieutenants,” he greeted with a polite bow. Lieutenant Morrison awkwardly bowed back. The blonde struck Hanzo as socially-inept, studying others and mimicking them more than genuinely responding. “I am glad that your journey was without further incident, and I have come to escort your wounded soldier to your medical facility.”

“Thanks, Hanzo,” Lieutenant Reyes smiled much less gracelessly than his other half. “But you really don’t have to do that.”

“I insist,” the archer forced the friendliest smile he could muster. “You should seek your own medical treatment, Lieutenant. You took quite a bit of damage during the confrontation with the raiders, did you not?”

“Eh, it’s not that bad.”

“I’ll make sure he gets the medical attention he needs,” Lieutenant Morrison interrupted, making his partner glower in a way that reminded Hanzo of his brother. “Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary,” Hanzo nodded before moving to begin the chore of picking the injured youth up.

“Do you need any help?" Lieutenant Reyes’ paternal tone of concern encouraged Hanzo to smile reassuringly before he scooped the boy up, making certain not to touch or move his injured leg too much and keeping the blanket over his body. The young Gunner was heavier than he looked, all muscle and bone, but his slim teenage frame made it easy enough to maneuver him.

“I have him. Please, do not concern yourself with your soldier, Lieutenant. I give you my word that I shall make certain that he is tended to. My father shall assist with anything your men require until our departure. Please see to it that you recuperate.” Hanzo offered another smooth bow of his head. “It was good to finally meet you both. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall take your soldier to the med-bay.”

“Jesse,” Lieutenant Reyes corrected. “His name is Jesse.”

“Ah. Yes. Jesse.”

“Also, he’s a little high off the Med-X I gave him, so if he says anything stupid don’t hold it against him.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Hanzo nodded before turning to carry the teenager off, leaving the pair to their squabbling.

The archer made his way to the shack utilized as a medical facility to hand Jesse off for the nurses to get to work. He sat in a chair in the corner, noting with annoyance that the back leg wobbled and wishing he were back in the luxuries of home.

Though the above ground work was vital, he didn’t care for most of it. The Commonwealth was as hostile as it was filthy. People survived on mutant bugs and irradiated crops, and Hanzo had to stomach it on more than one occasion or risk offense to their customers. Compared to most establishments in the Commonwealth, Blackwatch was at least mildly comfortable, but it held no candle to the amenities of home.

He was left alone with Jesse after about half an hour of the medics tending to the teenager's wounded leg and giving him some more chems for any lingering pain. An hour later, Hanzo was busying himself with replacing some of his arrowheads with some modified scrap-metal he'd come accross when the teenager began to stir. His dark eyes lifted from his work, watching Jesse groan and roll on the bed. The teenager looked miserable and was most certainly still intoxicated from all of the medications in his blood.

It was the first time Hanzo had bothered to look at him. Jesse was about his age, a good bit taller and built sturdily. His hair was shaggy and unkempt to match the general look of total disarray he had going on, complete with the untidy beginnings of a beard and ratty clothes. He was handsome though, in his own way; robust and strong and with a pair of piercing brown eyes that told Hanzo he was more aware than he was letting on.

“Boss?” The Gunner eyed Hanzo warily in the dim light, his ruddy eyes glazed over as he struggled to find focus. “Well now… Y’r not boss,” he drawled.

“No. Lieutenant Reyes is preoccupied but has requested that I sit with you, in his stead.” Hanzo placed his gear on the ground and moved to sit in a chair beside the bed, glad to find this one was more level. “I am the eldest son of Sojiro Shimada. Our caravan encountered your group and we opted to assist. You were wounded in combat, as was Lieutenant Reyes, but he is recovering elsewhere.”

“Y’mean, y’r a vaultie?”

“Yes,” Hanzo smiled, annoyed at the term.

Jesse blinked one eyelid a bit slower than the other. “Are all vaulties ‘s purdy as you? ‘Cause I’d sure be visitn’ ‘em more of’n, if so.”

“Ah. You are…very kind.” Hanzo folded his slim hands in his lap while his tattoo to tingle, feeling the two extra souls he was host to stir under the ink.

As was tradition, Hanzo had been part of a ritual shortly after he was born to begin the extensive and often arduous process of attracting a dragon spirit. Whimsical and fickle and self-seeking creatures, dragons were very particular and it could take many years for one to be drawn to a potential host. Most Shimadas would go through several before one successfully bonded to them, and only doing so after accepting a mortal name. In Hanzo’s case, he met his dragon spirits when he was four. Udon and Soba had followed him and never left his side. He’d been the first Shimada to have attracted more than one dragon, a fact that both he and his father were exceedingly proud of. They’d brought with them a third dragon, a female, who bonded to his brother, only then two years of age, the youngest before seen.

At eight years old, Hanzo was old enough to begin the ritual of bonding the dragons to his body through a special tattoo, the technique passed down the Shimada family line for many thousands of years. The process took a decade, ink only customarily added on his birthday, until he reached eighteen and it was finally completed. The twin spirits were now linked to his flesh and spirit as life-long symbionts. Udon and Soba were now his brothers as much as Genji was.

After fourteen years with the twins, Hanzo was still completely enamored by them, astonished at their beauty and strength. But he was vulnerable to them now that they were within his body, finding himself to be easily influenced and manipulated by their passions and whims. He’d been told that it would take time to learn how to control them, to understand them and to wield them as weapons. His father could manifest his dragon as an unseen companion, only visible to those it chose to be, and Hanzo looked forward to the day that Udon and Soba whirled through in the air above his head, free and beautiful and perfect.

He honestly pitied the obliviousness of the outside world. Most every human being on the planet would remain ignorant to the creatures that existed on the cusp of their reality, only knowing the grunge and dirt and blood under their nails. The knowledge was a gift Hanzo would never depreciate.

The twins stirred, echoes of growling and whispering moving through his skull—they were interested in the brown-eyed youth. An oddity, for certain. The pair was fussy about their company and generally disliked most people, not too dissimilar to their master. Hanzo could trust their wisdom and judgement of character on most things but opted to consider this a gaffe on their part. They likely had trouble reading the brunette properly with him being so intoxicated.

“How are you feeling?”

“Can’t say I feel v’ry much at the mo’en’t,” the brunette slurred, the drugs resettling in his veins. “Mn… Damn… I feel real good, ashly. Act… Act…sh… Shull… Aw, damn it.”

Hanzo tilted his face forward enough to hide his grin, Udon and Soba chortling and squirming and tickling his insides, their strange glee filling his blood like bubbles and testing years’ worth of training in emotional discipline. The twins seemed to revel in the challenge of breaking Hanzo’s composure while looking for outlets for their energy. His father suffered similar issues with his dragon spirit early after being bonded, and Hanzo had two of them. At the very least, their affability towards the runty Gunner would make things simpler to appear friendly on Hanzo’s part. His father had tasked him with gaining Jesse’s trust and he intended on fulfilling his duties.

“I am glad to see that you are recovering from your wounds, Mr. Jesse.” Hanzo lifted his eyes and immediately regretted it when seeing the moony grin on Jesse’s face, Udon and Soba sparkling inquisitively in his belly.

“Jus' Jesse's fine, par'n'r. An’ what’s y’r name?” the teenager smiled drunkenly, his voice low and husky with his drug-laced accent. Hanzo would never admit to finding it charming.

“Hanzo.”

“Honno.”

“Hanzo.”

“Hansew.”

“ _Hanzo_ ,” he grinned, unable to hide it with his dragons’ tittering through his bones. The vault-dweller squeezed his calloused hands together and encouraged them to quiet.

Jesse squinted, focusing on him for a long moment. “Hanny.”

“Not even close.”

“Fuck it. I’m callin’ yuh darlin’.”

Hanzo’s eyebrow arched. “That’s not very professional, Jesse.”

“Ah, I’m high as a kite aimin’ f’r a plane, so I don’ v’ry much care.”

“What?”

“Darlin’, y’r the purdiest damn thang I e’r did see. I’mma make you my ‘usb’nd s’mday ‘n treat yuh real nice.”

Hanzo choked on a laugh, hand flying to his mouth to stifle the sound, quietly humiliated that his composure had been fractured. Point one to the dragons. “Ah… Yes… Lieutenant Reyes warned me about you.”

“W’rned yuh?” Jesse sulked, his eyelids going crooked. “Well shit… Wha’s ‘e sayin’ ‘bout li’l ol’ me?”

The twins chortled within him, swimming and purring and making the conversation a chore. This Jesse was getting them more riled up than Hanzo was able to handle. He needed to excuse himself before it worsened. “You should rest,” he stood and collected Stormbow from where she leaned against the repainted wall.

“No!” Jesse wailed, flinching as he sat up while the archer tucked the chair back against the wall. “Y’can’t go yet, darlin’! I jus’ met yuh!”

“Good night, Jesse,” Hanzo bowed his head before promptly escaping.

The dragons coiled and whined, boiling his blood and trying to drive him back to the shack, but Hanzo was determined to ignore their howls. He went to find his father to report that Jesse was alive and well, ready and eager to return home.

It would be the last time Hanzo Shimada and Jesse McCree would cross paths for the next two decades.

 

Once Gabriel was in his room and getting cleaned up for his minor surgery, Jack strode into their command tent, where he knew he’d find his sergeant waiting to report.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” Jack nodded stiffly. “I trust things were kept in order during our absence?”

“Affirmative,” Stultz offered a crisp salute. “Everything is in the clear, Lieutenant.” Sergeant Tom Stultz was Jack’s second in command and was in charge of pretty much everything technical in his absence. Stultz was well-dressed, clean-cut and unconditionally professional, just the way Jack liked it. The red-head held out a rolled up piece of paper, tied with a piece of thin twine. They often utilized crows and ravens to deliver messages. The birds were cheap and often more reliable than terminal communication. “You received a letter from the Capital Wasteland, sir. This was the only thing of any event in your absence. Also, I have not yet heard back from our scouts regarding the missing raiders, but I did just receive a bird that Corporal Johnston and his three men have gathered all ammunition, weapons and salvageable gear at the train station. After Hanzo Shimada's arrival, I sent them ahead to gather whatever we could before scavvers beat us to it. I hope it was not too presumptuous of me, sir.”

“No, it was not presumptuous. Good work, Sergeant,” Jack nodded and accepted the paper. “Make sure the payload is properly managed, and that the Shimadas are treated well and fed for their troubles. I’ve got some things to take care of before I retire for the night, but I plan to be at my desk by lunch.”

“Yes sir,” Stultz saluted and abruptly vanished from the tent, already barking orders at the soldiers outside.

Jack tucked the note into the pocket of his pants and moved out the back of the tent towards Gabriel’s shack. The letter could wait.

He knocked on the door with the back of his knuckles, only entering when Gabriel called for him to come inside. Jack slipped inside, finding his partner sitting on his bed, dressed down to his hideous grey-camo cargo pants, his armor and shirt and gear dumped into an old explosives crate against the wall. Quite the contrast to Jack’s organized and tidy quarters, Gabriel’s room was nearly always painfully unkempt, with a desk covered in books and paperwork and a table littered in weapons. More guns and gear were on his walls, and his bed was virtually never made. If Gabriel were literally anyone else, Jack would have his head.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I got stabbed a whole lot,” Reyes chuckled.

"Let me see your kidney," Jack put a hand to the sealed cut on his friend’s side.

“That fucking tickles,” Reyes squirmed.

“It looks to be healing well, at least,” he decided. “Have you had the medics check you out?”

“Naa. They can’t really tell me anything I don’t know.”

Jack sighed and gave an irritated look but Gabriel just beamed a fanged smile and flushed the anger away. “All right, let’s cut the scrap from your back. Lie down,” he instructed.

Gabriel complied, lying on his chest, head in his arms to present the full width of his bare back while Jack moved to grab a scalpel from a drawer. They’d done this probably a hundred times since they’d met. They both healed quicker than stimpacks, which very often resulted in crap getting stuck in their bodies that they had to dig out later. But it was never a simple to cut shrapnel and bullets that had deeply embedded into their muscles, particularly for Gabriel.

The senior Gunner had received additional treatments from the long-missing doctor of the revived SEP program, Dr. Moira O’Deorain. Something about robots in his blood. These ‘robots’ made Reyes heal exceptionally quickly, to the point that wounds he sustained were almost always non-threatening unless massive damage was dealt over a short period of time. The doctor had explained it to him once, but Jack had never fully understood it and often forgot about it completely until Gabriel displayed moments of inhuman levels of physical recovery and stamina. He would have once sworn that Gabriel had lost three fingers to a deathclaw that had attacked the camp a year ago and Gabriel had decided to fight the thing with a damn combat knife like a complete lunatic, because of course he did. But Jack figured he had to have been imagining it because the following day Reyes was back to normal like nothing had happened, fingers and all. Or maybe he wasn’t mistaken at all, but that would mean that Gabriel had literally managed to re-grow three lost fingers. Gabriel never talked about it and Jack decided not to ask. The whole thing had left them both unnerved.

Jack pulled up the blue chair that Gabriel kept for his visits and sat down to get to work, carefully cutting the dark skin open and using tweezers to snatch out the bits and pieces of trash buried under the skin and muscle.

 

The whole process took about an hour and required Gabriel to roll onto his side and belly and all over to make sure Jack got it all. By the end of it, He’d been sliced up like a slab of meat but the precise and careful cuts were all but already gone.

“Better?” Jack asked while cleaning his tools off to return them to the desk drawer where they were kept.

Gabriel rolled his shoulders and made a series of tired but content sounds. Getting diced up was never exactly pleasant but the glow of the aftermath was worth it. He felt like he’d been cleaned out and scrubbed on the inside. Jack had perfect hands and an attention for it, meticulous to make certain he left nothing in Gabriel’s body that didn’t belong. He wasn’t scared to cause discomfort or pain to be sure it was taken care of correctly, and Gabriel would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy Jack’s hands all over him at least a little bit. It was strangely calming and verging pleasant to feel those long fingers working through his skin. He didn’t consider himself masochistic or anything, but he’d be damned it Jack didn’t make the sensation of being cut apart something he enjoyed.

“Definitely. Thanks,” Gabriel stood to grab and pull on his grey hoodie. “You wanna watch the sunrise? Gonna be a good one.” He and Jack had spent many nights together on multitudes of rooftops, talking or in complete silence, just watching the world blossom to life as the sun rose. They’d done it less and less over the years but still managed to make time every now and again.

“Gabe,” the blonde slanted his icy eyes querulously, “we have guests to see to.”

“The Shimadas?” Gabriel chortled. “Jackie, relax. They can take care of themselves. Com’on,” he slapped a large hand on Jack’s shoulder. “We never spend any time together.”

“I see you every day, Gabe.”

“Well yeah, but we don’t hang out as much as we used to do.”

A dark flame sparked in those cool, snowy eyes and he knew Jack was suppressing a remark. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

Gabriel offered a smile, hoping his charm was strong enough to mask his unease at Jack’s growing resentment and pat the blonde’s back a couple of times before he moved to take his ladder to the roof. Though neither of them had issues with jumping to the roof from the outside, an indoor ladder and hatch was quieter and less obnoxious to the patrolling soldiers.

The lieutenants nestled on the rusted steel slats, lying back to stare at the moonless sky. Sunrise was due in less than an hour and the skyline wasn’t quite yet beginning to catch fire.

They remained in comfortable silence for a long while, the chilly air filled with the sounds of laughter and chatter and the occasional _pip-pop_ of gunfire at the range. Spending quality time with Jack was something he missed. Jesse was great but he wasn’t good at long periods of quiet, his blood still young and hot and never letting the boy sit still. It was nice to get to be quiet and still with Jack, the repetition of the familiar ambient noises filling the space between them and pulling them together.

“You ever considered retiring?”

“What?” Jack rolled his face to look at him, pale eyebrows high on his head. “Retire? You mean from the Gunners?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel shrugged. “Never considered it?”

“Not…really. What brought this up?”

“I feel old, Jack,” Gabriel sighed a heavy breath into the air, watching it turn into a pillar of fog against the velvety dark. The horizon was only now starting to bleed with pinks and reds, sunrise taking groggy hold of the night and beginning to push it back into the void.

“Old?” the blonde snorted. “Gabe, you’re not even forty yet. And you’ve barely aged since we got those shots a decade ago.”

“I’m just…tired.”

“Tired? Tired of what?”

“This,” Gabriel waved a hand around in the air. “All of this. The Gunners. Being a soldier. A mercenary. Just all of it.”

Jack’s brows tilted, his expression shifting between confusion and surprise. He rolled to lie on his side. “Oh... You’re really serious.”

“Yeah, Jack. I’m really, totally serious.”

“Oh.”

Gabriel rolled to his side so they were facing one another. “You’ve never seriously found this life to be sort of…exhausting?”

Jack pressed his lips together, blue eyes lilting thoughtfully before flicking back. “Not particularly. It keeps me busy, puts caps in my pocket, and I’m good at it. I don't care for most of the other Gunner groups, but we have it pretty good here.”

“But do you enjoy it?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes,” the blonde offered a one-shoulder shrug. “But enjoying work has never really been a big priority for me. What about you?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “But I’m seriously considering retirement. I think it may be more fulfilling to settle down somewhere. I’ve got plenty of caps to build a small settlement of my own, if I wanted to. I could farm for my herbs and spices. Hell, I could even open a restaurant. And if I wanted to get my hands messy in ways other than stuffing soil into pots, I could join the Minutemen.”

Jack burst into laughter, sonorous and bright and briefly startling Gabriel. “A FARM?” Jack heaved, holding his stomach as he fell onto his back, rolling his head against the roof. “Holy shit, Reyes! A farmer? YOU?”

“Hey! I can be a farmer!”

“You so cannot! You’d be the absolute worst!”

“I would not, you little jerk!”

Jack flashed a smile so bright Gabriel thought the sun would be jealous. “I bet you don’t know the first thing about taking care of crops!”

“You little brat. I may not be a blonde-haired blue-eyed farm-boy from Indiana, but I happen to know how to grow a crop just fine, thank you very fucking much.”

“Oh man,” Jack wheezed. “You in overalls and covered in dirt, sticking seeds in the ground and milking brahmin… Just… Oh man… Holy shit, Reyes,” Jack wiped tears at the corners of his crinkled eyes, his body shaking the roof as he tried to reign in the waves of boisterous laughter. “I’d pay good money to see that. Good money.”

“Hey, if you’re in to dress-up, I’d gladly put on some overalls for you for free,” Gabriel teased and that just set Jack off into another burst of laughs, his hands flying to cover his red face.

“Stop! Reyes, stop! Shit! You’re going to make me barf!”

“Oh, we can’t have that. You’ll get your bloody shirt all gross and then what would people think?"

“And a restaurant? Really?”

“You know damn well that I could run a restaurant, Morrison.”

“Okay, fine, fine,” Jack chuckled. “I’ll give you that. I guess if you can run an entire Gunner camp you can probably flip a few steaks.”

“People would come far and wide to see me in my apron alone. The delicious food is just a bonus. If I could get you working tables in a miniskirt, we’d be filthy rich men, Morrison. Filthy fucking rich.”

“You’re nuts,” Jack chuckled as he wound himself down. “And the Minuteman? Really?”

“Eh,” Gabriel shrugged. “They’re not so bad.”

The blonde smirked a bit critically. “That’s just a little too heroic for guys like us, don’t you think?”

“Jackie, come on. I’ve seen you rush into a burning building to rescue children on six separate occasions. I’d say that’s pretty damn heroic.”

“That doesn’t really make me a hero,” Jack shrugged. “It was the right thing to do.”

“I think ‘the right thing to do’ is sort of the Minutemen's thing, Jack.”

“I guess. The Minutemen are just… I don’t know… Naïve? They don’t consider how much they thin themselves out, answering every call to get cats out of trees,” Jack rolled his eyes. “They need to learn priorities and how to properly train and arm themselves. And don’t even get me started on the mess they call a hierarchy. I don’t have a damn clue who’s even in charge and I really doubt any of them do, either. They’re a total disaster, Gabe. It’s really only a matter of time before they fall apart.”

“Well, it sounds like they could use the tactical genius of one Lieutenant Jack Morrison to get them in order,” Gabriel winked. “Between your firm, authoritarian hand and my earth-shattering levels of charm, we could fix-up the whole damn Commonwealth.”

Jack rolled his eyes at the complement but didn’t reject it. “Maybe… I don’t know, Gabe… That would be a huge life change…”

“Just consider it. I really think the Gunners are beginning to wear us both out, and they're taking nastier jobs. I don’t like the way it’s made us so focused on making caps and impressing some big-wigs we never even meet.”

“Gabe, that’s literally all we’ve ever done. We’re mercenaries. That stuff sort of comes hand-in-hand with our line of work.”

“I know, but wouldn’t waking up to real food every day and pulling kittens from trees be more satisfying than running around putting holes in raider faces for a few caps?”

The blonde hummed considerately, his eyelashes dropping before lifting, the bright blues shining back at Gabriel always so deep and stunning that he wanted to fall face-first into them and drown. “Can I wear roller skates at this restaurant of yours?”

“Oh, cariño, you’d basically be required to.”

Jack erupted into more rapturous laughter, the sound warming Gabriel to the marrow.

He really was unequivocally gorgeous when he was happy—his pale skin flushed pink, smile bright and boyish, eyes glowing and amiable and everything Gabriel remembered falling in love when they’d first met. He was absolutely smitten. Overwhelmed by Jack Morrison’s beautiful face and bashful smiles. Everything about him was amazing, even the bad shit, and Jack had plenty.

Gabriel wanted him more than anything, but Jack was still at arm’s reach, their fingers only now beginning to touch. But in moments like these, with the snow melted away and those impossible blue eyes gazing up at him full of warmth, their bodies so close, Gabriel wondered if maybe, just maybe, Jack was ready.

Want glazed in his eyes, impeding Gabriel’s self-trained restraint. Before he could think better of it, he bridged the gap between them until he was so close he could feel the other man’s shuddering breaths before he took that final risk, crossing the threshold and brushing their lips together. It was soft, barely even contact, but he could taste the ash of cigarettes on his breath. Jack rewarded him by leaning in, and for the fleetest of perfect moments Gabriel Reyes had everything he’d ever wanted in his life. But the jelly in his stomach turned to ice when Jack hissed a breath and jerked back, as though Gabriel had burned him, hand covering his mouth and cerulean eyes igniting with panic.

Well, shit.

Too soon.

“Aw, fuck. Jack, I’m sorry,” Gabriel started, but before he could try to right his mistake the blonde wheeled off the roof and vanished into camp.

Gabriel pressed his hands into his face and cursed himself as his heart plummeted through his back and roof and right into the ground.

He had no idea how to fix this one.

 

Jack fled to the safety of his office and locked himself inside, ignoring the concerned glances of his soldiers as he’d dashed by. His back hit the door and he slid until he was on the half-rotten floorboards, face in hands and his whole body quaking. What the hell had Gabriel been thinking? What had HE been thinking, letting him get away with a bold move like that? It was wrong on every level that Jack could consider, and the blonde scolded himself for his moment of weakness.

The feelings had been there, budding across his first three decades of life, paltry and ignored and malnourished, until Gabriel Reyes had shown up and suddenly everything in Jack’s life was turned upside-down. Gabriel, with his tangy grins and dark skin and brash personality that was all uniquely him. The man smelled like gun-smoke and cooking spice and it drove Jack mad.

He’d learned how to manage the feelings, how to quash them and sweep them under a thousand rugs where they belonged. There was no room for a relationship in his life, and certainly none for a man.

Memories of his father’s righteous fury against their neighbors still haunted him, the vehemence and raw disgust forever burned into Jack’s mind and scarring the landscape. The day his father had put bullets in those two innocent men was the day Jack had decided it was best for him to leave.

He wiped the redness from his eyes with the back of his arm, snorting when he realized he was smearing some of Gabriel’s cherry blood against his face. Jack stared at his hands, stained crimson with his friend’s insides. His stomach churned and flopped again, threatening to give up its contents.

Jack slammed his head against his door and glared pathetically at his misshapen ceiling, tears biting his eyes again as he struggled against himself. What the hell was he supposed to do now? The cat was out of the bag. If Gabriel didn’t know Jack was interested in him before, he sure as hell knew now. He’d spent the last decade pretending to ignore the advances, desperate to find a way to fix whatever was wrong with him, hoping that it would all just go away. But it hadn’t gone away. He’d been weak, and things were never going to be the same between them.

Jack couldn’t give Gabriel what he wanted. What they both wanted.

Crushed beneath the weight of himself, the lieutenant remained in silence for a while, his windowless office remaining dark as the sun rose outside, the only light a small blue lamp in the corner with a flickering bulb that needed replacing.

In his haze of self-disgust, the letter he’d forgotten about burned in his pocket. He sniffled and wiped his eyes again before digging the small scroll from his pants. He tossed the twine onto the hardwood and unrolled the note, hoping to find reprieve from himself for a few minutes.

 

> Lieutenant Morrison,
> 
> I trust that this message has been received with haste and that you are of good health.
> 
> We here in the Capital have been monitoring you and senior peer, Lt. Gabriel Reyes’, growth, both as soldiers in our failed attempt to revive the old-world Soldier Enhancement Program, and as front-runners of our largest and most successful Commonwealth operation. Your qualities of bravery, resolve and good-judgement have made it clear that you are both to be accommodated for your years of service.
> 
> I will get straight to the point: a position for Major has been opened in our newest outpost here in the Capital and I have been tasked with appointing someone to it. The title has been dubbed “Strike Commander,” as it is dedicated on spearheading our most dangerous jobs on the front lines.
> 
> After much deliberation, I have decided to extend the promotion to you.
> 
> You have been selected over Lt. Reyes due to your particular set of skills and tact, as I believe Lt. Reyes’ more affable disposition is better-suited to his current station. I have been informed that his second in command, Pvt. Jesse McCree, is past due for a promotion and seems as capable of handling your duties alongside Sgt. Tom Stultz. You would of course be expected to move to the Capital ASAP, should you accept.
> 
> I urge you to consider this promotion, as I believe that you are the best choice for the positon.
> 
> I expect a prompt response within the month, either way.
> 
> With regards,
> 
> Colonel Bridgette Anderson
> 
> Rivet City, Capital Wasteland

He stared at the invitation for the better part of half an hour, mind spiraling and guts turned to mush.

Jack stood and wiped the dirt from his pants, still needing to get cleaned up from the events of the previous night, and sat at his desk. He opened the lower left-hand drawer, where he kept all of his writing utensils and papers nearly stacked and organized, and licked the tip of his pen to write a response.

 

> Colonel Anderson,
> 
> I have received your message and am deeply honored by your consideration for this promotion.
> 
> After deliberation, I have decided to accept the position and shall move to the Capital as soon as I am able.
> 
> It shall take a few days to get my things in order here to ensure that Blackwatch is managed properly in my absence, and approximately a week’s travel to reach Rivet City, but I trust by the time you receive this letter I will have already begun my trek to your direction.
> 
> Things here at Blackwatch are going well. The work is satisfying and the pay is excellent, but one cannot evolve without new challenges.
> 
> I am confident that Sr. Lt. Reyes will be in good form with the promoted Sgt. McCree. We are very good friends, but I am sure that he will understand my decision.
> 
> I shall see you in two weeks or less, depending on the weather for travel.
> 
> Thank you again for this opportunity.
> 
> Signed,
> 
> Lieutenant Jack Morrison
> 
> Blackwatch, Commonwealth

 

Gabriel ended up at the med-bay, sitting with a slumbering Jesse and trying not to be sick as anxiety wracked his every cell. He hadn’t seen Jack since sunrise and was absolutely terrified at the prospect of never seeing the blonde again—that maybe he’d actually ran Jack off.

Morrison wasn’t much afraid of anything, but he was a skittish creature when it came to romance, always careful to skirt the line and keep everyone at arm’s length. Gabriel had hoped that he’d be different but was perfectly fine with just being best friends, and the thought that he could have ruined their relationship over a single kiss made him want to throw a chair through a window.

His pounding head was still in his hands, elbows perked on his knees when Jesse stirred awake. Gabriel snatched a bottle of purified water to prepare to force it down the teenager’s throat if he had to. The nurses had made it very clear that the first thing he needed to do was make sure the kid drank and got some food in his system. “Morning, mijo,” Gabriel smiled tenderly through the sour ball still coiling in his chest. He pushed some bangs from the groggy-eyed boy’s face as the lights of awareness flickered on in Jesse’s chestnut eyes. “How you feelin’?”

“Like shit,” Jesse smiled sleepily. “My leg still there, boss?”

“Yeah, mijo,” Gabriel chuckled. “Your leg’s going to be just fine.”

“That’s real swell, boss. Still hurts like the dickens, though.”

“It’ll pass. You weren’t kidding when you said you clocked out from Med-X. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone drop so hard.”

“Yeah, it sort’f knocks me on my ass, don’t it??” Jesse grinned. “That for me?”

Gabriel offered him the bottle as Jesse shifted to sit up, helping the brunette as well as he could without hurting him. “You think you could get some food down?”

“I reckon I could try,” Jesse nodded and took a long swig of the water. Gabriel could feel his dark eyes watching him, a natural detective that often made keeping anything from Jesse a chore. But Gabriel knew how to deflect those all-seeing eyes by now. “You feelin’ all right, boss? You seem…off.”

The lieutenant reached out and ruffled some of Jesse’s hair, making the teenager fuss and swat at him. “I was just worried about my new Sergeant.”

“Sergeant?”

Gabriel nodded, satisfied with the look of shock on Jesse’s face, the looming and awkward conversation successfully deterred. “Morrison and I talked and we think you deserve a promotion.”

“Holy shit, boss… Are you serious?”

“Serious, serious,” he winked.

“Well hot damn!”

“Excited?”

“Damn right I am! But, uh…this don’t mean I gotta do lots’f borin’ paperwork ‘n shit, right? ‘Cause Tommy’s gotta do that trash sometimes an’ it seems mighty borin’, an’ I think I’d be obliged to turn the offer down, if so.”

“No, mijo,” Gabriel snickered at the boy’s pouting at the prospect of sitting behind a desk. “Sergeant Stultz belongs to Jack, and Jack enjoys the menial drives of the Gunner operations, like paperwork, so of course his second in command would have to as well. Stultz is good for Morrison and you’re good for me.” He grabbed the cowboy hat off the desk behind him and flopped it on Jesse’s head.

Jesse tipped the brim to expose his enthusiastic smile, one eyelid humorously dropping lower than the other as his sleep continued to grip him. It really amazed Gabriel how similar the boy could look like a younger version of himself, sometimes, all dark-skinned and smirks and filling in all the right places. Jesse could very well be his son, and he had come to fill that role so easily that it nearly scared him. “I never thought I’d be nothin’ but a runt ‘n the streets, but here I am—Sergeant Jesse McCree… Wow… Life sure can be funny sometimes, can’t it, boss?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, offering another gentle but pained smile. “Life can be funny sometimes.”

“Heya, boss,” Jesse dropped his brown eyes and played with the edge of his bed linens. “I was really hopped-up on lots’f meds last night and I met this real cute fella and was wonderin’ if maybe I was hallucinatin’ ‘im or somethin’, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I met the man’f my dreams.”

“Oh my god. Please don’t be talking about Hanzo.”

“Hanzo,” Jesse sighed moonily and Gabriel rolled his eyes.

“No, Jesse. No. Stop. You cannot hit on the heir of the Shimada clan. They’re valuties but they’re also gangsters, and Sojiro would have half a mind to bury you out back and not bat one of his perfect fucking eyelashes over it. The guy may seem nice but it’s mostly show, so just keep your dick in your pants or risk it getting cut off.”

Jesse’s expression wilted. “But boss! You only get the chance at this sort’f love once in a lifetime!”

“Dios mio—NO,” Gabriel stabbed a finger at the brunette as Jesse glared back at him, all determined teenage fury. “You can’t possibly be in love with him, Jesse. You just met him last night!”

Jesse’s eyes darkened and he folded his arms, staring his commander down and looking as obstinate as Gabriel had ever seen him. “You tellin’ me you didn’t fall for Morrison the moment you laid y’r eyes on ‘im?”

Gabriel’s face paled before turning bright red. He opened his mouth to argue, to yell, to say something, anything, but nothing came out.

“That’s what I thought,” Jesse smirked devilishly at the lieutenant, knowing he was right, and Gabriel sighed in frustration before sitting back in his chair.

 “I wasn’t high on pain meds when I met Jack,” Gabriel snapped, voice pitching angrily. “You’re a teenager. You’re running off hormones. You don’t know how you feel.”

“What the hell, boss?! I do too know how I feel! You take that back!”

“Hanzo is a very attractive young man, Jesse, but there will be others. Now I need you to swear to me that you’ll behave yourself and act professional with the Shimadas.”

“This is a load’f shit,” Jesse grumbled, turning his eyes away to glare at the chipping paint on the wall.

“PROMISE. ME.”

“Fine, fine… I promise…”

“Good.” Gabriel stood and moved to the door, hesitating with his hand on the handle. “I’m going to grab you some bread and I expect you to get it down. Also, don’t you EVER talk about Jack and I again. I fucking mean it.”

He stormed out before Jesse could say another word, furious with himself and at the whole damn world for placing a beautiful, flawless, unobtainable creature like Jack Morrison in his path, meant to be admired from a distance but not touched. He was completely destroyed by Jack; ruined for anyone else.

If Gabriel couldn’t fix this, the road ahead would be a long and lonely one.


	4. The Way Our World Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day before he leaves for the Capital, Jack finally tells Gabriel about his new position.   
> Gabriel takes it about as well as expected.

Three miserable, devastating days came and went where Gabriel didn’t have a clue where Jack was most of the time. He’d only seen the blonde’s silhouette a handful of times between shift changes and meal breaks.

Shit. He really fucked up. Gabriel was so furious with himself that he was sick. He couldn’t eat or sleep, too haunted by the twisted perfection of that night on the roof.

He should have known better. He should have kept his hands to himself. Jack wasn’t ready. He would _never_ be ready. But Gabriel had crossed the line and there was no easy way of going back. No easy or quick fix.

He really wouldn’t blame Jack if he decided to leave but Gabriel still prayed it wouldn’t come to that, the blonde's remaining presence offering up a sliver of hope that maybe things would be all right. Space and time was his best bet to recovering whatever was left of their absolutely shattered relationship, so he was content to give Jack all the space and time he needed, even if it tore him to pieces. He'd gladly wait for a hundred years if it meant getting Jack back.

After their talk in the med-bay, Jesse had been keeping his distance. Once back on his feet the kid took it upon himself to pick up all of the lieutenant's work without even having to be asked, sensing his commander was in too much emotional strain to really handle much of anything, particularly when it was obvious to everyone what Jack was avoiding him. Jesse took charge of training the new recruits, appointing rounds, and made sure that everyone was well-fed and in good spirits despite their second commander’s absence. Gabriel had even caught sight of the kid speaking with Jack at the command tent, going over maps and discussing strategy about an upcoming job with him, arguing with the blonde about this and that in a way so similar to Gabriel that it probably made Jack uncomfortable. Jesse had easily been the best pick off the streets Gabriel had ever made, even if he’d introduced some stress between the commanders. Gabriel had no idea how the hell he’d gotten so lucky.

It was past midnight and he was alone in the oddly-quiet mess hall, the soldiers all off their breaks and back to work. Gabriel was listlessly flipping some diced meat and vegetables for dinner when he heard a gravelly voice behind him, crushing his thoughts and jerking him back to reality.

“Good evening, Reyes. We need to talk.”

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder to bask in Jack’s face. The commander was back in his hideous blue trench-coat ensemble, looking professional and clean-cut the way he did when he was desperately pretending he wasn’t upset about something. Gabriel forced himself to look away and turned the stove off. “Oh?” he willed his voice even as he cleaned the counter, hoping to redirect the nervous energy bubbling and pooling like acid in his guts. “About what?”

“Sit with me,” Jack motioned at the empty picnic table before he sat down. “Please.”

Gabriel exhaled a terrified breath through before serving himself his meal and sitting down, placing two warm beers on the table though Jack didn’t even as much as glance at his as Gabriel sat on the opposite side.

The silent angel watched him eat, shoulders back and spine ram-rod straight. He said nothing until Gabriel sat back, plate emptied, arms folded and staring at the table, too ashamed to say anything before Jack. “Your new sergeant has been performing exceptionally,” Jack finally broke the awkward quiet. The soldiers outside filled the air with chatter and laughter, rambunctious for so late, but the mess hall remained eerily silent, and Jack's voice echoed off the metal walls, making him sound almost ethereal. The man was unearthly. “You should be proud. Jesse has surprised me quite a bit with his competence and gift for strategy over the past couple of days.”

“I told you he was a good one.”

“Yes. You did. And you were correct. I was wrong about Jesse.”

“Wrong. Wow,” he balked. “I honestly don’t think you’ve ever admitted that. Not in eleven fucking years.”

Jack shrugged. “Yes, well that’s probably because I’m rarely wrong.”

“Right,” Gabriel snorted ruefully, eager to keep the quiet blanket from resettling. “So… Are we going to talk about how I royally fucked everything up and how sorry I am, so we can make-up and move on with our lives?”

Jack leaned his elbows on the table and set his chin in folded fingers. “No. I didn’t come to talk about that.”

Gabriel lifted his eyes and was met with those beautiful but clouded blues. “You didn’t?”

Jack stared at him, so cold and distant that Gabriel wanted to scream. “No, Reyes. I didn’t. We’re not schoolchildren. What happened between us the other night was wholly inappropriate but I’m well over it.” Bull-fucking-shit. “I came here to discuss business with you.”

“Business?” Gabriel scoffed, well-aware of how petulant he sounded but he was beyond caring. “Morrison, I’ve hardly seen for you three days after you ran the hell off! I thought I’d never fucking see you again!”

“You startled me.”

“You’ve been totally avoiding me!”

“And you’ve been avoiding me.”

Gabriel opened his mouth to bite out something poisonous but promptly swallowed it. “I… I’m just… Shit. I’ve been trying to give you space.”

“Space,” Jack blinked lazily, unbothered by his peer's growing display of frustration. “Space for what, exactly?”

“To be justifiably furious with me. I... I really blew it, Jack. I know I blew it and I hate myself."

The blonde gave a subtle roll of his perfect eyes. “I’m not angry with you, Reyes.”

“You’re either a shitty liar tonight or hilariously ignorant,” Gabriel grumbled. “I can’t decide which.”

“There’s no reason to get defensive. I’m fine. _We’re_ fine,” he emphasized. “I assure you that any anger you believe to have seen is all in your head. You call me paranoid but you’re far worse, sometimes.”

“Jack… Come on… You’re doing it again…”

“Doing it again,” he echoed mechanically. “Doing what exactly?”

“You always do this when something shitty happens. You fall ass-back into this soldier mode trash. No feelings, no empathy, no pain, no anything. It’s how you protect yourself.”

“I’ve always been this way. I’m just being professional.”

“No, Jack, you haven’t, and you’re not. I mean, yes, you were always a bit cold-shouldered, sure, but ever since SEP you’ve been…different. You’re turning in to a zombie and I hate it. Can’t you just allow yourself to be angry for once? Tell me you’re pissed at me,” he pled. “Scream at me. Hit me. Something. Anything! Whatever it fucking takes. I’d honestly rather you just hated me than turn yourself completely off.”

Jack rolled those icy eyes. It would be obnoxious if the sign of irritation wasn’t of some relief that there was still a human left under all that chemical snow. “I’m not going to hit you, Reyes. Please stop being so dramatic and let me talk.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw, preparing himself for the worst. “All right, then. Talk.”

Those glaciers briefly dropped towards the table before rising to meet his associate’s shivering brown gaze. “I’ve taken a position in the Capital.” Gabriel’s stomach plummeted through the floor. “They offered me Major. I considered it and decided that it was a good professional move, so I took it. You won’t have to worry about my absence affecting the camp. I’ve gotten everything in order. Sergeants Stultz and McCree will take on most of my duties, between them, until you can decide who deserves to be appointed second lieutenant. I know you favor Jesse but please give Tom a chance, Reyes. He’s very good at his job and would be an excellent candidate. But I leave that decision to you.”

Gabriel’s head was swimming. The chance that Jack would turn tail and run had always been a real one, but he never legitimately thought it would happen. “You’re…leaving?”

“Yes. I'm leaving. I’ll be joining a merchant caravan tomorrow as a guard and making my way towards the Capital. I’ll make sure to send a bird once I arrive so you know that I got there safely.”

“Tomorrow?” His terror was suddenly and aggressively flushed and replaced with fury. Gabriel shot up, brown eyes blazing. “TOMORROW?”

Jack frowned up at him. “Yes, Reyes. Tomorrow.”

Gabriel snarled and paced like a black lion, mind racing as he cursed and rambled under his breath in Spanish before he stopped to glower down at the frowning blonde. “How long?” he demanded. “How long, Jack?”

Jack sighed with some exasperation. “How long what, Reyes?”

“How long have you planned on leaving?”

“Is that really of any consequence?”

“Yes, Jack! It really fucking is!”

“It's really none of your business, but if you must know, I received the letter shortly after we returned with the Shimadas.”

Gabriel tilted his gaze to glare heatedly at the floor, his insides squirming and howling. “So you made this decision before or after I ruined us?”

“Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

“NO!” Gabriel jabbed a finger at him as Jack stood to leave. “No, you do NOT get to come in here and tell me you’re leaving after eleven years of partnership and expect me to get no say in it!”

Jack stopped walking but didn’t turn. “Nothing you can say or do will change my mind, Reyes. I’ve already sent my response and I have every intention of following through with my acceptance of this position. You should be happy for me. You know I wanted to rise in the ranks towards brigadier and this is my chance.”

“You can’t possibly think that this will make you happy!”

Jack turned to face him, all warmth buried beneath miles and miles of ice. “You’re being ridiculous.” Gabriel really wished Jack would say his name. “Just because I’m leaving, it doesn’t mean that I wish to see you unhappy. You made it very clear the other evening how much you dislike your job. I’m encouraging you to retire.”

“I can’t just retire! Not without you! I need you!”

“No, Reyes. You don’t need me. You were fine before we met and you’ll be fine after we part. I’ll be in contact.” Gabriel knew a lie on that beautiful fucking mouth when he heard one.

“Jack… Please,” Gabriel begged, on the verge of tears like a god damn child, but he was beyond the point of being ashamed. He was desperate to keep Jack with him. Selfish and broken and absolutely desperate. “I know I messed up. Bad. Really, really bad. But please give me a second chance. Please. I know I’ve made a huge ass of myself over the years, and I’m sorry for that. I’m _sorry,_ Jack. You weren’t interested and it was wrong of me.”

“I…was,” Jack admitted with some hesitance, and that was probably the most shocking thing he’d said so far.

“What?"

"I was interested. But that’s not the point.”

"Yes! It is the point! That’s literally the whole god damn point!”

“What do you want me to say, Reyes?” Jack took a single, long stride until he was right up in Gabriel’s surprised face, blue eyes ignited. “Do you want me to tell you that you disgust me? That you embarrassed yourself? That you were completely out of line? That I’ve tolerated your inappropriate advances over the years because we make a good team? That I reached the breaking point when you made a total jackass out of yourself?”

It hurt. It fucking hurt to hear Jack say it, even if it was true, though Gabriel believed none of it. But the boiling anger brought some hope with it that maybe Jack Morrison hadn’t been lost completely, still there under all that snow, but the blue fires promptly died and cooled, and Gabriel’s last scraps of hope died with it.

Jack dropped his eyes and shocked Gabriel when he embraced him, holding him tightly for a brief moment of what felt to be legitimate affection that Gabriel had no idea what to do with in the face of everything. “I love you,” the cold angel admitted distantly. “I love you more than anyone else in this whole god damn mess of a world. You’re my best friend, Reyes, and I would let everyone and everything else burn before allowing any harm to come to you. But I can’t do this. I can’t. And I’m leaving.” Jack released him, blue eyes to the floor and hand resting on Gabriel’s chest before he turned. “It’s better for both of us this way.”

The spark in Gabriel’s eyes darkened, a heavy desolation chilling him to the bone. The fight was over. “I love you.”

“I know you do. I promise to keep in touch.” The lie lanced through Gabriel’s chest with cold and brutal precision, nailing what was left of his heart to the wall.

“Jack… Please,” he pled weakly, one last time. “Stay…”

“I wish you the best, Reyes.” Jack vanished through the undamaged door at the other end of the mess hall, the sound of its rusted hinges echoing off the walls with finality as the door shut behind him and crumbled their world beneath its shrieking, hollow weight.

Gabriel’s face fell into his hands, eyes searing with tears so hot and caustic he thought they’d melt through his skin, his soul whimpering as it was ripped in two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These boys are both a total mess, but things will only get worse before they get better.   
> I feel bad writing Jack so cold but he got royally messed up by Moira/SEP. Things will improve for him, at least--depending on your point of view.  
> Sorry for this chapter being so short. I could've tacked it on to the last chapter but felt it deserved its own little spot.   
> The next chapter skips ahead several months and Gabriel will be facing yet another major life change.  
> I’ve been sick all week which is the only reason this wasn’t already up, but I’m almost done with the next chapter so I’m planning to post that by the end of this weekend, depending how I feel.


	5. The Secret at Dunwich Borers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several months after Jack walked out of Blackwatch, Gabriel stumbles upon an artifact and his world is again changed forever.

It was mid-December, late, cold and raining—Gabriel’s fucking favorite. But the job was too important to skip just because he was getting a little wet.

He and Jesse were scouting the old-world Dunwich Borers excavation site, hired by a few settlements putting their caps together to try to deal with a group of raiders that had settled there. He couldn’t justify bringing in any other Gunners besides Jesse for the low amount they were getting paid. To be completely honest, it was hardly anything, but Jesse had been approached with it and had accepted the job on pure morality. Blackwatch was the closest thing the locals had to the safety of the Minutemen anymore, which was pretty pathetic. The militia was falling apart and consuming itself, with little more than a few pockets of devoted soldiers left to keep it on life-support. Jack had been right: the Minutemen were going to be over sooner rather than later. 

Gabriel in fact had no intention of taking any caps from the settlers, but his men didn’t need to know that. Once the job was done, he’d take in weapons and ammunition and whatever else he could find that Jesse didn’t donate to the settlers to justify any incurred costs. Settlers already had enough crap to worry about just trying to survive. 

Gabriel was glad that Jesse had the morals to match his own. It was more than he could say for pretty much everyone else he’d literally ever worked with.

“So, what do y’think, jefe?” Jesse scoped the busy raiders below with his binoculars. “I count twelve, and one’f ‘em’s in that shabby-lookin’ power armor.”

“Can you drop him?”

“Not in one shot, but I can fan ‘im up close. Shouldn’t be much’f a problem f’r Peacekeeper.”

“Hm. I’d rather let you take care of the rest and leave him to me.” 

“Whatever you say. I’m just here for the ride.”

“The settlers hired you, you know. This might as well be your op.”

“Aw, com’on now, boss. They only approached me ‘cause I’m more on their level, ‘s all. I think it’s the hat,” Jesse smiled and ran his fingers along the leather brim. “People love the hat.”

“Right. Okay. Well, we need to take the turrets out first.” Gabriel directed the teenager’s attention towards the small station to their right, where a single raider was patrolling outside of the open wall. “They’re probably linked to a terminal. Did you bring a silencer?”

“Did I bring a silencer? What sort’f question’s that?”

“Jesse,” Gabriel shot him flat eyes, “you put your boots on the wrong foot half the time and always forget your night-scopes.”

“I do n—! No,” he puffed. “I didn’t forget the friggin’ silencer.”

“Good boy.” Gabriel ignored him as Jesse stuck his tongue out. “Now, I know you prefer the six-shooter but I need you to quietly take the lookouts first. I’ll sneak in and deactivate the turrets. Then you can start dealing with them and I’ll get the drop on the guy in the power armor.”

“You sure you can hack a terminal?”

“If raiders set it up, I doubt it will be difficult. Most of them can barely read.” Gabriel knew the only reason Jesse could read at all was because his parents had taught him before they died, and even then he wasn’t much of a bookworm. Gabriel had an intense love of fiction, particularly poetry, and had attempted to pass his fondness of classic authors like T. S. Elliott to his protégé but the best he’d managed was Jesse reading a lot of burned comic books. He couldn’t win them all. “If for some reason I can’t hack it, be sure to blow the turrets before we do anything else.”

“Roger that.”

“And keep that ridiculous hat of yours down and don’t get caught. If they see you, I can’t promise I can get to you very easily. It’s not like I can just teleport.”

“Y’r just jealous ‘cause my hat’s way cooler than y’r dumb beanie.”

“It’s a knitted cap, you little shit. Now focus that half-empty head of yours for one god damn second.” 

“I know, I know,” Jesse rolled his eyes dramatically. “This ain’t my first rodeo, boss. I can handle myself just fine. I’m a sergeant, remember?” 

Gabriel had opted to make Stultz the new lieutenant instead of Jesse, mostly because Tom wanted it and Jesse didn’t. That and Tom was legitimately excellent at filling Jack’s work-shoes. Jesse was happier as sergeant, anyways; less paperwork.

“Okay,  _Sergeant_ McCree, let’s get this over with.”

“What do we do if they start crawlin’ out from below? We dunno how many are inside.”

“I’ll be able to handle most of them, but you just keep popping heads and I’ll be fine.”

“No problem. You be careful, now. I don’t wanna gave tuh come in ‘n save y’r ass an’ embarrass yuh ‘n front’f all the shithead raiders.”

Gabriel yanked Jesse’s hat over his face before slinking towards the station, keeping his eyes on the scout. Once in position, he motioned and the raider crumpled into a pile on the metal stairs, a perfect shot through his temple. The kid was gold. 

After a few seconds of hesitation to be certain no one had seen or heard the shot, Gabriel crept up the ramp and dragged the body into the station before checking the terminal. It wasn’t even locked. Wow. 

He disabled the turrets, the sound of their rhythmic whirring to stop, and promptly took the opportunity to scavenge some .38 rounds off the raider’s corpse before heading back onto the ramp and giving Jesse a thumbs up, which the teenager returned. Gabriel motioned for him to hesitate and looked down over the quarry to check for the raider in power armor. He was patrolling the path about half way to the bottom, where the raiders had set up a cage over a fire-pit, piles of bodies already burning. Gabriel flit his dark eyes back towards his sergeant and offered a single nod. Before even half a second had passed, six raiders in Jesse’s line of sight dropped, alarming the camp and putting the rest on alert.

Gabriel skirted the ledge, producing his shotguns and calculating the best angle. He waited patiently for the power armor to be directly below him before dropping down and blasting the raider with several shells to his chest with enough force to send his lifeless body plummeting to the bottom of the white chasm. Raiders were firing at him immediately, which was exactly what he was hoping for, redirecting their attention and giving Jesse the chance to reload. Before Gabriel could get the chance to blow a hole through one of their heads, the rest of the raiders had hit the ground, perfect bullet-holes ending their lives with more painless grace than they ever deserved. 

He descended off a ledge to the bottom and motioned for Jesse to begin the task of taking the winding trail of rusted stairs to meet up with him. Once upon a time, Jack would have simply leapt down, landing effortlessly like it was nothing.

Jack’s striking face filled his mind, all golds and whites and blues, and Gabriel tried desperately to push it back into the depths. Some days, Gabriel wished he could just forget him. He still dreamed of Jack and saw the silhouette of his coat rounding corners and heard his scolding in the back of his mind, but Jack was gone. For good. 

Gabriel hadn’t gotten a single word from him other than that he’d arrived safely in the Capital, though he’d sent messages, hoping Jack would make good on his promise to keep in contact, but his efforts had gone unanswered. The silence was honestly the worst part, not knowing whether or not Morrison was safe or whether or not he’d found the happiness he’d wanted and rightfully deserved. 

The soldier had time to think about everything that had happened between them and knew he’d been wrong to ask Jack to stay. That he’d been wrong about a lot of things. Still, he was weighed by the misery and guilt of it. Gabriel knew that he was being selfish to wish to see Jack just one more fucking time, but he couldn’t help himself. Someone else was looking into the bottomless pits of those cold, brutal blue eyes every day and it made him sick. But maybe this really was what Jack needed to be happy. Maybe it would turn those glaciers into the warm oceans Gabriel once knew them to be. But he seriously doubted it. Jack hadn’t been happy since SEP.

Moira’s experiments had left Gabriel in a good deal of physical pain for a long time and with some useful but unnerving side-effects, but it was nothing he couldn’t deal with. In contrast, Jack had been nearly destroyed. Gabriel had honestly thought he wouldn’t survive it, given how badly Jack had responded to the treatments and how high the death toll was for the injections: more than seventy-five percent of the group suffered terrible deaths. The last shot had almost melted Jack in Gabriel’s arms, his core temperature so hot that Gabriel was sure he’d turn to soup. He’d survived but came out of the other side cold, like lava turned to stone, and Gabriel would never forgive her for it. 

God help that bitch if he ever got his hands around her bony neck.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Jesse beamed a campy smile, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans, and it struck Gabriel just how mature he was starting to look. Jesse had grown a couple of inches and filled in well since he’d been scooped up off the streets, and though he was still brimming with boyish sass and bleeding charm, he was rapidly becoming a man. Gabriel really couldn’t be much prouder if he tried. 

The only thing that kept him sane since Jack left had probably been Jesse, and though Gabriel had seriously considered going through with retirement, Jesse wanted to stick with the Gunners for a while, too young to really give up the easy caps and too eager to prove himself in combat, so Gabriel opted to stay a few more years. 

“It wasn’t so bad,” he agreed. “We need to be careful heading deeper inside. We don’t know what to expect. I’ve never been here before and don’t know the layout or their numbers. We could be in for a nasty surprise and you know how I feel about surprises.”

“Yuh hate ‘em.” Jesse lit a cigar and blew a plume of grey into the air. He’d switched from cigarettes on his last birthday when Gabriel had surprised him with a set of cigars and Jesse had decided they were preferable. Gabriel liked them on occasion but the kid smoked them almost chronically. It was better than chems or something harder, but Jesse was definitely addicted to the stuff.

“You’re not allowed to smoke in the raider lair, mijo.”

“That’s why I’m gettin’ it done outside, now ain’t it?” Jesse sassed as he blew another plume of the rich-smelling smoke. “Just five minutes. I need a break.”

“Fine. Five minutes.”

They were seeking shelter from the rain in the stony inset leading down to the door guarding the mouth of the cavern, both of them a bit tentative to enter. Gabriel rung some rainwater from his cap before stuffing it in his back pocket, upset at how every thread he wore was soaking wet. Jesse was wearing a black leather hooded cloak and was mostly dry. Maybe a cotton hoodie had been a poor choice.

“You look miserable, boss.”

“It’s almost Christmas and I’m working, it’s fucking freezing and I’m drenched,” Gabriel grouched. “I look miserable because I am miserable, mijo.”

Jesse gave another long drag of his cigar, allowing the quiet to settle in. He was getting better at this, the quiet part, like Jack had been. Time had waned some of the harsher edges of youth, though Gabriel figured the kid would probably always be just a little boyish. Jesse had an air of youth about him that time would have difficulty in fully wrestling away from him. “You still miss ‘im, don’t yuh?”

The lieutenant sighed through his nose and leaned against the marble wall, folding his arms and dropping his eyes to the ground. If anyone else asked him that, they’d get clocked in the face hard enough to break every bone in their damn head, but Jesse got away with more than he should. “Yes, mijo,” he confessed somberly. “I still miss him.”

“You mailed his superiors yet?” Jesse questioned between exhales of smoke. “Might tell yuh what blondie’s up to, at least.”

“No. It’s not my place to interfere with Jack’s career like that.”

“Interfere?” Jesse scoffed. “Y’r just askin’ if ‘e’s alive, boss. I don’t see how that’s much interferin’. Y’r his friend. Ask as such.”

“No. Trust me. He’d take it as interfering.”

Jesse frowned into his cigar and offered an indolent shake of his shaggy head. “I know yuh don’t wanna hear nothin’ out’f me ‘bout this, boss—”

“I don’t.”

“—but I daresay it’s god damn unhealthy how y’r mopin’ around ‘bout Morrison,” Jesse talked right over him. “It hurts me bad, boss, seein’ you depressed all the damn time, pinin’ f’r a man yuh can’t never have.” Christ. He really needed to get Jesse an English tutor one of these days. “I wish I could fix y’all, boss. Really, I do. But I can’t. And I know I can’t fill that blonde angel’s shoes—not like you need, at least. I mean, I  _could_ , but y’r basically my pa and it’d be pro’ly be a li’l weird.”

Gabriel snorted, trying not to laugh. It was stupid, joking and chatting when there were men and women waiting to kill them around the corner, but he always seemed to end up in these sorts of positions when it was just him and the kid on a job. “Yeah, no thanks. You’re, uh…not really my type. And also, I’m not fucking  _pining_ , Jesse, what the hell?””

“Well y’r old as stones so y’r not really much my taste, neither,” Jesse teased. “And y’r definitely pinin’, boss. Ain’t nobody in doubt’f that.”

“I’m only thirty-six, you rude little shit.”

“Gross,” Jesse sniggered and flicked his cigar butt to the marble floor, sweeping it against the wall with some empty Nuka Cola bottles. “Well I hope yuh feel better, boss. I really do. You deserve tuh be happy. But I know he was y’r one true love, like Hanzo’s mine. I understand what it’s like, bein’ separated ‘n such f’r so long a time.”

“Oh my god,” Gabriel rolled his eyes as Jesse released a melodramatic sigh meant to incite his irritation. “Don’t you even get started about that Shimada boy again.”

Jesse took off his hat and put it over his chest. “My perfect love, kept from me all this time by my own pa. I daresay I’ll never recover.”

“You’re the fucking worst son in the world.”

Jesse chuckled and swept his hat back onto his scruffy brown hair. “I’ll meet ‘im again one day, papi. Yuh can’t keep that blue star from me forever.”

“You met him once, Jesse. ONCE.”

“Once is enough sometimes,” Jesse smiled moonily and Gabriel released an annoyed sound before finally approaching the red door. Jesse collected himself and drew his silenced 10mm as his commander slipped inside. “Gee willikers,” Jesse never failed to surprise Gabriel with his way with butchering the English language. “This place is creepy as all get-out… I’m getting’ the heebie-jeebies…”

“Shut up, mijo.” Gabriel squatted squint at the glaring lights from floodlights the raiders had set up to blind them to a turret. “It looks like we have two raiders and one turret ahead.”

“I can take both,” Jesse whispered over his shoulder and reloaded his silenced 10mm and aimed. The raiders didn’t even get a chance to be surprised when the turret exploded in to shrapnel, both dropping to the floor. “Easy-peasy.”

“Showoff,” Gabriel chuckled. 

They moved down the path, taking a ramp to make certain there was no one to be snuck up from but only finding a fenced storage closet turned in to a makeshift jail-cell. The pair descended back to the main tunnel and continued, hesitating between small lookouts where they easily dealt with picking off raiders. Gabriel always preferred to go in guns blazing if he could manage it, but he was well-acquainted with the art and value of stealth. He snatched a few raiders off the sidelines, easily and silently snapping their necks while Jesse picked off the ones in the distance and popped floodlights and spotlights like balloons made of glass. 

It wasn’t long before they found a winding metal staircase hugging the rock walls all the way down into the guts of the earth. At the very bottom was a pair of raider bosses discussing details of some recent drug trades and joking around, completely unaware of the Gunners hunting them. Gabriel was still shocked at how ignorant raiders were to use something as simple as a damn radio for alerts. But it made them easy pickings.

Jesse mumbled and shifted uneasily as the white walls shivered, stones dropping around them as the cavern groaned sleepily. “Let’s get this over with so we can go home.”

“Let me guess, you’ve got ‘the willies’ or something equally as stupid.”

“Ain’t nobody wanna die in a cave-in, boss.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “We’re not going to die in a cave-in, Jesse. Focus. Do you have enough rounds to take these two out?”

The teenager stuck his tongue out as he stuffed his hands in to his pockets and made an irritated sound before checking his pistol. “Uh… I got one bullet left.”

“One,” he blinked angrily. “You’ve got one bullet left. _Seriously_?”

“There were a lot’f ‘em!”

Gabriel stared at him flatly as Jesse tried to tame the lieutenant’s irritation with one of his doofy smiles but Gabriel had built up an immunity by this point in their relationship. “You forgot to bring backup ammo. Again. After I’ve told you a thousand fucking times to bring a backup case.”

Jesse pulled his hat low over his face to hide his shame. “Gosh darn it, boss. I’m sorry!”

“You say that every time, Jesse.”

“And I’m sorry every time!”

Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. They could go back and check for any spare 10’s off bodies but he just wanted this to be over with so he could go home and grab a bite of food that wasn’t an irradiated Sweet Roll. The lieutenant had skipped lunch in favor of assisting with a patrol and was finally starting to regret it, his belly twisting and croaking emptily. Any damn louder and it risked actually becoming a health problem. “I guess I should start carrying spares for you. Christ, Jesse. Get your shit together, I mean it.”

“I could use Peacekeeper,” Jesse offered, but Gabriel shook his head.

“As much crap as I’ve been giving you, this place really does seem unstable. I’d rather not risk a cave-in from any loud noises, and that thing’s about as damn loud as my shotguns.”

“Point taken… So what’s the plan?”

“We sneak down there and take them out by hand.” Gabriel rolled his eyes at the look of dismay on his partner’s face. “Oh, relax. You know how to fight hand-to-hand. I know you do because I made it a point to teach you. It’s just two guys.”

“Well yeah, how tuh tackle a man and get ‘im in a choke-hold ‘n such, but nothin’ like no ninja shit like you ‘n Jack!”

“Jesse, relax. I know you struggle with close-quarters combat, but just get the gun out of their hand like I showed you and don’t get stabbed or something, and I’ll take care of the rest.” In all reality, it wouldn’t be a challenge for Gabriel to just handle them on his own, but Jesse needed to learn how to handle new and different situations, with or without him. “You’ll be fine.”

“Right. I mean, of course I’ll be fine.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes again and started the creep down the rusted stairs. He was honestly more concerned about the rusted scaffolds between shelves of stone falling apart and plummeting a hundred feet into a rocky death pit than about two idiot raiders.

“DeHart doesn’t know what the fuck he’s d _—AUGH!”_ The Raider shrieked in surprise when Gabriel dropped off the scaffolding and straight on his head, muscle and metal nearly outright crushing him before he was promptly ended with a stab to the throat.

“What the f—” The second raider was cut off, Jesse following his commander’s lead and punching the larger man in the back of the neck, snatching his rifle and giving Gabriel an opportunity to grab the surprised raider’s head and crush him into the stone wall. There was a sick crack and Gabriel let the raider’s body slide and drop.

“That wasn’t so bad.” Jesse checked a rifle, pouting when he saw what poor condition it was in before dumping it after pocketing the ammunition. 

“They were sloppy,” Gabriel remarked as they began to rummage through the raiders’ things. He squatted to check one of their pockets and tossed Jesse a small case of 10mms. “Waste a shot and I’ll kill you myself.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So can we go home, already? The raiders’re all dead as shit. I’ll call the settlers up first thing in the mornin’ with the good news and get some guys out here tuh collect what little we can.”

Gabriel’s scanned the room before settling on a chained door. “Just a little ways left, mijo.”

“Boss, com’on! That there’s all locked up! Ain’t no reason tuh go any deeper into this hell-pit!”

“Oh, stop whining.” Gabriel pulled his cutlass from the raider’s body, cleaning it and pocking it. The weapon had served him well since he’d picked it up. 

The raiders, now calling themselves The Disciples, had gratefully withdrawn back to whatever disgusting hole they’d crawled from, leaving behind only a few examples of their strange knives, guns and gear. Jesse carried the only other cutlass they’d found on the bodies, but the guns had proven mostly useless thanks to the lack of ammunition they required. Gabriel kept it all in a steamer trunk in his office, hoping someday he’d find a merchant or caravan that carried the damn stuff. The guns were well-maintained and powerful, and would definitely be useful if he could find a way to make the damn things work. Downgrading them seemed like it would be a waste, so they collected dust in the meantime.

Gabriel moved to remove the chains and opened the door, revealing another long tunnel, and Jesse groaned and fidgeted nervously behind him. “Let’s finish cleaning the place out and get out of here.”

Jesse sighed loudly and adjusted his hat, reloading his 10mm before following his commander through the red door. “Whatever you say, boss.”

A circuit breaker caught Gabriel’s attention. There was no need for him to have light down here, well-capable of seeing in the dusty dark, but Jesse was blind. Ahead of them, he could see several feral ghouls slumbering; turning the light on would alert them but at least the kid could see. “Keep an eye open, mijo. Ferals ahead,” he whispered and drew his cutlass. “I’ll go in and get the jump on them, then turn the breaker on.”

“Right.”

Gabriel slunk closer, licking his lips and finding the largest of the ferals to take out first, carefully scouting where each one was and the quickest method to deal with them. He pounced on a particularly gangrenous looking one, grabbing it by the throat as the ghoul writhed and shrieked, the sound guttural and desperate before it was silenced. 

The overhead lights sparked as they came to life, illuminating the marble halls with their harsh light and alarming the remaining ghouls. Jesse and Gabriel made quick work of the small hoard with no serious injuries, though the teenager came close to being bum-rushed a couple of times by the damn things.

The lights revealed the full length of the passage and yet another door to pass through. Jesse grew fussier the closer they got to it but Gabriel ignored him, feeling almost compelled to open it. He didn’t even hear most of the boy’s loud, one-sided debate to keep him from opening the damn thing before the door was swung wide and Gabriel had stepped through.

White light blanketed him in a milky void before it retracted just as quickly. Gabriel felt a tingling flush his body, the tiny robots in his blood alive and buzzing like static discharging beneath the skin and making the dark hair on his arms prickle uncomfortably—his nanites were upset about something. They only acted out or made their presence known when alarmed, and that had him on edge.

He whirled to look for his sergeant but Jesse was gone, and that definitely had him wondering what the hell was going on.

Gabriel squat at the sound of voices ahead of him. More raiders? Fuck. He licked his lips and drew his cutlass from the holster on his hip before creeping close enough to peer over the ledge, squinting through the brightness of some floodlights. Three men were chatting, keeping their voices low. They were loitering around a circuit breaker and wore normal clothing but looked too clean to not be suspicious. They were no raiders. They looked like…miners? Actual to God pre-war miners.

He strained to make out the details of their hushed conversation as they worked and was surprised to find he couldn’t make sense of most of it. His senses were frayed on the edges, blunted and dumbed down as though they were being suppressed somehow.

Gabriel’s nanites fizzed restlessly when a low snarling filled the cavern. A deep, guttural, ancient snarling that shook the walls and put a pleased, devilish grin on the miners’ suddenly cruel faces.

“ _The ritual is nearly ready_ ,” he managed to focus well enough to make out. “ _Ug-Qualtoth calls for a sacrifice and She shall receive it_.”

That word…

That…name…

That hideous, vile, ravenous, glorious name…

‘Ug-Qualtoth’…

It shook him. Straight to the deepest parts of him. It stabbed and coiled and shrilled in his head, a migraine singing and pooling in a bloody froth at the base of his skull.

Gabriel felt his eyes roll back into his head and he collapsed, the white overtaking him once again and dumping his senses back to reality.

“BOSS!” Jesse’s voice came in to focus. “Are you all right?! Can you hear me?! Jesus! Jesus, wake up!”

“Jesse?” he coughed and spit into the cool dirt. He was lying on the cavern floor, a long-abandoned wrench digging into his belly. Gabriel cursed and shifted his weight to sit up, his insides still writhing with dread at that abhorrent name, but the voices of the nanites forewarning him to caution was deadened by a cold echo in his skull that called him to continue.

There was a secret at Dunwich Borers and Gabriel Reyes was going to fucking find it. 

“Boss, thank God! Holy moly! I thought you had a stroke or somethin’! Shit!”

“I’m fine… Just…blacked out there for a second…”

Jesse helped him up, expression a bit frantic and concerned. “Boss, we need tuh get home,” he insisted, “Y’r tired as hell an’ I won’t let you get hurt down here over a couple’a damn ferals.”

“NO.” The burst of uncharacteristic aggression must have startled Jesse because he took a step back to give his commander some space. Gabriel grabbed the cavern wall and steadied himself, imagining a warm pulse beneath his fingers. He was really fucking out of it, but he wanted to keep going. He needed to keep going. He had to keep going. Keep going. Keep going. Just a little farther now. Just keep going a little further. “We keep going.”

“Boss… You literally collapsed… I ain’t never seen that happen to you before…”

His stomach growled and twisted emptily, the hunger threatening to drop him again. “I’m fine. It was just a moment. My nanites were fussing.”

“Y’mean those tiny robot things or whatever?”

“Yes, Jesse. Those tiny robot things.” Gabriel rolled his shoulders and shook the fizziness from his head before pressing onwards, his companion nervously trailing in his shadow.

“What’re they gettin’ fussy ‘bout?”

“Not sure. Probably nothing. But they can mess with me sometimes. It’s not a big deal. Sorry for scaring you like that, mijo,” he apologized. “Let’s just clear the rest of the tunnels out and go home.”

“If yuh insist… But I want it on the books that I wanted tuh leave.”

“Consider it noted, mijo.”

Jesse shook his head and sighed, obviously alarmed but obedient all the same as they moved through the moaning dark, the walls and floors shivering around them like the rumbling belly of a marble dragon.

Another circuit breaker and shaft filled with ghouls later and they approached a narrow path cut out of the marble. Air sung from the shaft, cool and haunting, and Jesse whimpered a little behind him, obviously uneager to enter. “Com’on, boss,” he begged and took three steps backwards. “Let’s go.”

“Just a little further,” Gabriel moved without willing himself to, descending into the shaft. “I’m almost there…”

“ _Ia! Ia! Ug-Qualtoth! The Black Goddess of the Swamps! The Mother of Shadows!_ ”

Gabriel lowered a hand as the whiteness withdrew to skirt the blurred edges of his vision as the scene formed. A man was standing at a podium, a large dagger in hand, overseeing a blood sacrifice on a podium of black stone that overlooked a small auditorium of untold age, men and women cuffed and arranged around him, sobbing for mercy that Gabriel knew they would not receive.

“ _Great Mother, Ug-Qualtoth! Accept these offerings and feed! Feed and grant us sight! Feed and grant us power! Feed and grant us knowledge! Ia! Ia! Ug-Qualtoth!”_

The hunger rumbled through his insides, emptying him out again, snarling and viscous, before the white drew in and the darkness of the narrow passage overwhelmed his sight. When the darkness cleared, Jesse was standing in front of him, Peacekeeper drawn and smoking, and four ghouls crumpled at their feet as the walls howled.

“Reyes, what the hell was that?!” Jesse half-screamed and shoved Gabriel at the shoulder. “You fuckin’ dazed out again!”

“Huh?” Gabriel blinked, still dazed. His head filled with whispers in a way he hadn’t felt since the first time he got his nanites. They were alive, like bugs under the skin, crawling and humming in unison. “Oh. Sorry, kid.”

“Sorry… Right…”

The marble pews were gone. The slabs gone. The man and his pedestal gone. In its place was a gaping hole in the earth and a damaged crane creaking over it as a breeze funneled through the passage. Where it came from, Gabriel had no clue.

“What the hell is all’f this?” Jesse gawked at the ancient, destroyed temple. “I don’t like this one bit, boss… Not one bit… Let’s go. That was the end of the ghouls.”

Gabriel used his boot to turn the ghouls, investigating their faces and recognizing the men and women from the…whatever that was. He moved to the crane, running his hand along the chipping red paint while Jesse eyed him uneasily from behind. 

“I…really think we should go,” Jesse pled, stepping backwards. “Please? Pretty-please? This place gives me the willies… And all the shakin’ ‘n groanin’ from the walls doesn’t help quell my anxieties much, neither. I’d really rather not get crushed down here, boss.”

“I’m going to look around. If you want to go, just wait for me outside and start gathering scrap and weapons and keep a lookout, I’ll have my radio.”

“What? No! There’s no way I’m leavin’ yuh in this spooktastic place all alone!”

“It’s just a cave, Jesse.”

“It’s creepy! I’m gettin’ goose-pimples!”

Gabriel eyed the water pit in the center of the room, anxiety settling in when the whispering in his head grew louder and more insistent, summoning him to further investigate. Against his better judgment, he complied, approaching and kneeling to look into the black well, the cold stone and iron bars jutting around the opening like metal fangs biting into his palms. The water was a still and murky black. He couldn’t tell where the bottom was, much less where the well led to, but he was filled with a compulsion to dive into it, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. “I’m going in.”

“Into the creepy hole in the creepy cave filled with creepy water?"

Gabriel began to remove his breastplate. “Yup.”

“You can’t seriously be thinkin’ about goin’ down there, boss! There’s no tellin’ how deep it goes!”

“I can hold my breath for a few minutes,” he tossed his breastplate to a still very apprehensive Jesse. Gabriel pulled his still damp hoodie over his head and removed his boots and other bits and pieces to prevent unnecessary weight or drag. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll go in and look, then come back. I can see in the dark so it should be a piece of cake.”

“I don’t like this…”

“Jesse, relax. I’ll be gone for a few minutes tops. If I don’t come out in five, come after me.”

“What?!” Jesse croaked. “Boss, I can barely swim!”

Gabriel stopped to arch an eyebrow. “You can’t swim?” This was something he didn’t know.

“I mean, I can!” the boy quickly defended. “Just not very well, is all!” Yeah. He definitely couldn’t swim.

“We’re fixing this as soon as we get home, mijo.”

“Boss, no!” he howled. “I hate swimmin’!”

“You’re learning to swim, mijo.”

Jesse made a pathetic whine in the back of his throat and hid his face beneath his hat as Gabriel put his legs into the cold water. The lieutenant took a deep breath and glided inside, disappearing beneath the smooth, black surface.

The well wasn’t as deep as he’d expected. Gabriel felt his naked toes touch the bottom as he glanced in the dark, feeling an old skeleton’s smooth bones under the sensitive skin. The pitch was all-encompassing, the corners of his normally clear vision blurred and dark in a way that he hadn’t experienced since before SEP. He could see bits and pieces of dirt drifting and floating through the cool muck, the chill seeping through his pores and penetrating his marrow. He was swathed in it, drenched by it, swallowed by it. The wall was made of dirt and stone but with his heart thumping in his ears and free-floating in the black, he felt more like he were in a cold womb than a well. 

After some turning, he spotted a hole in the wall. Gabriel rose and swam in to it, and the voices became a disorienting symphony in his head of words that he couldn’t understand, summoning him towards a stone table lit by glowing mushrooms. There were two mini-nukes but he ignored them in favor of the jagged machete, drawn by an unnatural and overpowering need to take possession of it. 

As he drew near the altar, a dim buzz throbbed through his bones. The artifact sang to him, numbing his mind and pitching him into a sudden, all-encompassing dark when he reached out and took the handle. From the blackness formed a face of a beast with the skull resembling an owl crossed with a goat, with antlers made of twisted tree bark. Seven red, uneven slits in inky pits meant to be eyes stared straight through him, their otherworldly color eating away at the grey of his brain.  

 _Feed,_ the command resonated grainy and hollow. Gabriel’s blood fizzed thickly again, setting off another series of ignored alarms. _Feed… Feed… Feed, for we hunger…_

A snarling orchestra swelled until it became deafening before the blackness and noise abruptly withdrew.

Jesse was leaning over him, eyes like brown saucers. “GABE!” he cried, his voice cracking. “Boss, are you okay?” He took Gabriel’s hand and moved to pull, bracing his long legs against the muddy lips of the pit and yanking his commander from the depths. “That’s the THIRD time, boss! The THIRD time you’ve blacked out on me in thirty-odd minutes!!”

Gabriel coughed and wheezed when he hit the dirt, black water spilling from his mouth and his lungs burning. He didn’t remember swimming out. “Fuck,” he cursed jaggedly and spit more dark liquid to the floor. “How long was I down there?”

“'Bout five minutes,” Jesse was nearly whimpering. He hit the space between Gabriel’s shoulder-blades to push out any remaining liquid. “I was just about to come down there! Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel lied. He wiped his mouth and tried to shake the disorientation off, his mind still pleasantly numb. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Gabriel felt empty, his guts hollowed and replaced by a scorching, demanding, unyielding emptiness. “I’m hungry.”

“I’ll cook yuh up somethin’ when we get home,” Jesse promised and offered his hand again. “What's that?”

He glanced at his left, finding the artifact still in-hand. It was a curved weapon, the blade jagged and uneven. Gabriel gripped the handle until his knuckles turned white. “Kremvh’s Tooth,” He didn’t know how he knew what the damn thing was called. “It’s a sacrificial blade.”

“Ah… All…righty then... Sacrificial, eh? Hmm... Well, it’d better be a nice weapon tuh be worth all this mess.”

Gabriel raised his gaze to look at the young Gunner, feeling his ruddy eyes dilate as the pleasant, numbing buzz in his head nestled in. Jesse looked like the setting sun—it was like a heat humming and muttering about him, all rusty reds and oranges burning around the teenager’s edges, flickering in and out of Gabriel’s sight. The flames turned stark and neon against a black background before the world reclaimed it and the lights vanished, like he'd been seeing the stratums of reality falling atop one another and fighting for dominance. He groaned sickly and leaned his head into his hands when the world sputtered in and out, easing him in to a headache in the base of his skull. 

“Boss?” Jesse’s nervous voice broke through the confusion and anchored Gabriel back to reality. When he opened his eyes again, the world was flat and ordinary and the voices were chased back into the void. “Boss… Are you sure y’r all right…?”

“I’m just…tired,” Gabriel blinked the last bits of insanity away. His nanites were boiling in his blood. As much as he hated Moira, it would be nice to have her around for days like these. Hallucinations were a new side-effect. “It’s been a long day and I’m hungry.”

Hungry... Hungry... He was so god damn _hungry_...

“Com’on, jefe,” Jesse offered him his boots. “Let’s get you fed ‘n tucked in. I think we’ve had about just enough adventure f’r one night.” 

“Yeah.” Gabriel looked down at the artifact he held, knowing he’d have to put it down to get dressed and feeling suddenly overwhelmed by anxiety. He growled and pushed it down, finding the will to slide the blade into the back of his pants and accepted his gear from his subordinate. The whispers reignited and Kremvh’s Tooth seared feverishly against his back, calling—demanding—to be held again, the ravenous emptiness curling and churning and fermenting in Gabriel’s belly. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the next phase of Gabriel’s life. Things are about to get a little…weird.  
> I thought it would be fun to mess around with Kremvh’s Tooth, given the nature of the artifact being liked to a canon cult and Lovecraftian entity in Fallout. I’ll be abusing a few of Fallout’s more supernatural themes because I’ve always found those elements to be interesting in the face of its general realism, and it isn’t so out of place in this crossover, what with Hanzo running around with magical dragon tattoos… Plus, it’s a good excuse to have a more literal monstrous take on Reaper.  
> Apologies for this chapter being so tardy! Work’s been insane and I’ve been preparing for a convention. I’ll be out of town this weekend so no chapter until next week, but I plan on writing Monday so I may get lucky and get it up that night, depending how badly the con drains me.


	6. RE: PLEASE REPLY SOON.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse is growing desperate to keep Gabriel together and to figure out what’s going on with him.  
> He’s encouraged to contact the only person that may be able to lend a hand.

Things had gone to shit since Dunwich, and Jesse had no damn clue what to do about it.

Gabe barely ate and slept even less than he used to, which wasn’t much to begin with, and his attitude was really starting to go sour. The guy was crumbling down a hill so high it might as well reach the sky, and Jesse wasn't certain what was prone to happen when his commander finally hit the bottom. It was even worse than when Jack had left, which was fucking awful on its own, but this…this was a disaster.

At first he’d chalked it up to stress and anxiety. Gabe had never really recovered from Jack breaking his heart and skipping town, and the poor guy had suffered a series of emotional setbacks a few times those first few months, but he’d always managed to bounce back or at least pretended to. But now...now it was just bad. Always bad. And what was worse, it wasn’t the miserable sort of bad that it had been but had devolved into aggression and paranoia and fixations on the strangest shit that Jesse couldn’t really explain.

For starters, he never let the stupid sword they’d brought back. Not even for a minute. Gabe kept it on his person at all times and preferred it to be in hand; always the left one. He’d begun favoring it over firearms in combat, which was more than enough to tell Jesse that something was really wrong. Gabe had always loved his stupid shotguns, looking like a dorky badass carrying two at a time, but now he almost exclusively preferred the dumb sword. It did the job, sure, but it made long-distance combat a little rough and Gabe had to find excuses to get close to the enemy so he could use the damn thing. Gabe had always been pretty practical, so to work so hard to find an excuse to use a weapon was definitely a red flag.

And he barely cooked anymore, which was another huge, red, glaring flag brandished in the air and setting off a whole rainbow of anxieties. Cooking was more than just a chore or hobby for Gabriel—it was a religion; something that brought him peace and clarity and order. For him to almost completely neglect it was worrisome. The guy had begun to live off barely-cooked meats and the irradiated potted foods the privates always kept handy, something Gabe would have been thoroughly disgusted by only a few short months ago. And even of that, he barely ate at all.

To top it all off, completely ignoring his increased aggression and paranoia, Gabe hadn’t mentioned Morrison’s name once, not once, in the last three months. Like it had suddenly become a curse even Gabe considered too much, which was something Jesse had once deemed impossible.

What the hell was going on? Was Gabe suffering a mid-life crisis? Had he finally cracked under all of the pressure of the Gunners and Jack rejecting him before bailing? Christ, Jesse hoped not, because there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to fix it.

For the time being, he could only wait and try to show support, crossing his fingers that whatever shit was going on in his commander’s head that Gabriel would somehow trudge his way out of it.

It wasn’t like the Commonwealth had a bunch of therapists roaming around. And even if there were, Jesse knew Gabe well enough to know that the lieutenant would tell them to stuff it. Whatever was going on, he just had to pray to whatever God was left out there that Gabe would recover on his own time. But watching his commander scream at a soldier over coming back five minutes late from a break, Jesse had this nauseating feeling swirling through his belly that things weren't going to be so simple.

“Conrad was only a few minutes late, y’know,” he arched a brow as Gabriel approached, looking furious.

“He’s been late to his post three times this week,” the lieutenant hissed and jabbed a thick finger into his chest hard enough to bruise. “Don’t make fucking excuses for him unless you want unpaid leave.”

“Yeesh! Sorry, boss!” Jesse raised his hands in submission as his commander snarled at him, baring his stark white teeth. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I was just wonderin’ what the hubbub was all 'bout is all.”

“If you’d keep track of your men, then I wouldn’t have to go around screaming at them.”

“Ah… Well, apologies, Lieutenant,” Jesse swallowed but flashed a nervous smile in attempt to placate Gabriel’s wrath. It didn’t work.

“Stop apologizing and start doing your god damn job.”

“Right.” Jesse frowned and watched his commander saunter off, barking at several passing soldiers to get out of his way or to do this or that before he vanished around a corner to head towards the shooting range. Why he bothered, Jesse wasn’t sure. Gabe never shot his guns there anymore. He’d just loiter and correct soldiers, though Jesse knew he wanted to pick up his guns, like the man’s fingers were itching but he resisted and kept his large hand firmly grasped on that god damn sword.

Four hours later and Jesse was finally on the cusp of being relieved of duty. He was in the middle of doing a final sweep of the perimeter when Tom approached, looking prim and proper and  legitimately together as ever.

“Good evening, Captain McCree,” the taller man smiled sanguinely and adjusted his black-rimmed eyeglasses.

Jesse smirked and offered a wink, which got the lieutenant chuckling. “Evenin’, Lieutenant Stultz. It’s a mighty fine night, ain’t it?”

“ _Isn't it,_ Jesse _._ ”

“God damn it, Stultz. Give bustin' my balls a rest f'r the night, will yuh?”

“Will _you,_ ” he smiled.

“Y’r insufferable prick some nights, I fuckin’ swear it, Tom.”

Before Morrison left, Jesse had very little personal interaction with the at-the-time-Captain and would freely admit to have thought the guy was a total freaking dork. Tom enjoyed weird stuff like paperwork and going over strategies in dusty old books he’d dug up from the Boston Public Library. He liked to design settlements and build things, always ready to get his slender hands into the dirt or to poke and prod at a turret. Even so, he was always so…clean, at least he looked clean.

The young lieutenant put forth a gargantuan effort to present himself as professionally as humanly possible and had even taken up Jack’s habit of wearing coats, preferring a khaki duster since it was less obvious on the field. Tom was pragmatic like that. It seemed everything he did had purpose or was justified somehow, good or bad. He wasn’t always the pristine ideal of humanity—he was in the Gunners, after all—but Tom was well-known for his efforts to help settlers and never fired a shot unless he needed to. He always said it was the Gunner way to not “waste a bullet” or something along those lines, but Jesse had a hunch that it was deeper than that. Tom Stultz was a swell guy, and he wasn’t so hard on the eyes, either, if you liked the handsome nerdy type.

Tom was taller and more slender than Jack had been, made up of all long limbs and sharp edges, with large olive eyes and a head of well-trimmed hair that reminded Jesse of the umber-brown of rusted metal under chipping paint. He was fit and lean, pale, and burned easily, with freckles speckling his face and most his shoulders from what Jesse had managed to see. He was also blind as a bat without those damned glasses of his, but Jesse had decided they suited Tom just fine.

At twenty-four, Tom was still a handful of years older than Jesse, though they honestly looked around the same age with how large the captain was filling out to be, in comparison. The man didn’t look a day older than eighteen and was often mistaken as a private. Tom was also pretty dang friendly for someone that worked so closely with a pretty little sociopath like Jack Morrison, and Jesse found his company to be increasingly enjoyable as time passed, particularly since Gabriel had started his emotional collapse. 

“Would you like to have some dinner with me, Captain?”

“Don’t your rounds start soon? Boss’ll get mighty furious if y’r late.”

“I have about half an hour to burn,” Tom shrugged and swung his well-tended plasma rifle over his shoulder. “I could use some pleasant company before my shift ruins such a nice evening.”

“Well, all righty then. Don’t mind if I do,” Jesse tipped his hat. The pair fell in to comfortable steps with one another and made their way towards Tom’s quarters, Jack’s old one, where they knew Gabe wouldn’t dare tread. Tom’s room was the safest place from their commander in the whole of the outpost, and Jesse found himself spending more and more time there.

Once safely inside, Jesse flopped into the old patio chair he used when he was visiting his friend, tossing his hat on to Tom’s neatly-dressed bed while the other soldier shrugged his coat off and hung it up on the rack against his wall. Tom’s room was as clean and organized as you might expect, still looking strikingly close to how Morrison had left it, probably because they were so similar.

Jesse pretended not to watch him as Tom bent his height to glance through his fridge before producing some leftover stingwing from lunch the previous day and set it on the table alongside a bowl of mutfruit. The man had a nasty sweet tooth, and Jesse always made an effort to snatch up Sweet Rolls and Fancy Lads for the guy when he got the chance. Tom’s favorites were always the snack cakes and they'd sometimes split a box after a long day.

Jesse thanked him when he was offered a beer and plate with silverware, and Tom took a careful seat in the aluminum swivel chair he’d dug out of Medford Hospital, the one with the padding he’d replaced, and got comfortable for their supper.

“He’s gotten worse,” Tom commented, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry. He cut his food and took a bite, keeping his green eyes facing the old plastic Halloween plate.

“Yeah,” Jesse sighed between bites. Stingwing was a strange meat, somewhere between steak and boatfly in texture. He’d always found it a little salty and strangely sour, but it was definitely better than most of the ‘buggy’ meats out there. Shame that it was pretty hard to get a hold of. Stingwings were real assholes. “I’m gettin’ real worried… He’s just so gosh dang angry all the time, Tommy… And he won’t listen tuh me none no more.”

“He misses Major Morrison.”

Jesse took a long swig of his beer and shook his head. “Nah. I don’t think that’s it. I mean, it’s part’f it, sure, but…it’s…somethin’ else, too. I dunno, Tommy. I just… Somethin’s real wrong with ‘im…”

Tom nodded in agreement. “It could be a mix of getting older and Jack leaving,” he suggested, “along with stress of the job and of course there’s the whole SEP thing. And PTSD. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone scream so loud in their sleep before.”

“But he wasn’t always that bad,” Jesse insisted. “I mean, sure, Gabe’s got night terrors, and Jack did too, but this? Tom, he’s nearly killed three soldiers on duty just from sleep-walkin’!”

“I know that, Jesse. I’m worried about him, too.”

It was easy to forget that Tom knew Gabe long before he ever did. Tom had joined the Gunners even younger than Jesse had, having been sold in to slavery by his family to raiders before being rescued by Jack when he was on patrol. Tom was the only straggler Jack had ever brought home with him, and he’d had to prove himself even more than Jesse had. Luckily, Tom was good with a rifle and had excellent survival instincts. He’d been used by the raiders to keep their gear fixed and had enough experience and gusto that Jack was willing to stick his neck out for him.

“Right… I’m sorry, Tommy. I know you care about Gabe just as much as I do.”

“I highly doubt that,” the green-eyed soldier grinned. “Gabriel and I were never very close. Not like you are. Not like I was with Jack. But I certainly don’t want to see him hurt. Jack wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Jesse sighed and ran a hand through his filthy hair. “I wish he hadn’t left… Jack really fucked things up ‘round here leavin' the way 'e did, didn't 'e?”

“Jack did what he felt he needed to do.”

“I know that. And I ain’t sayin’ ‘e should come back, neither. If ‘e wasn’t willin’ tuh give Gabe a chance, it’s f’r the best they just both keep apart. Gabe won’t heal with Jack loomin’ ‘is purdy blonde head over ‘im none. They need space.”

Tom nodded quietly and took another small bite of his food, only continuing once he’d swallowed. The guy would probably even die politely. What someone like Thomas N. Stultz was doing in the Gunners, Jesse had no freaking clue. “I agree with that sentiment, Jesse. It’s…sad…that they fell apart how they did. I know Jack cared very deeply for Gabriel. But he wasn’t…” Tom trailed, his eyes squinting some as he rummaged his brain for the right word or phrase, ever-considerate. “Jack is…damaged. I attempted to encourage him to seek treatment, but he refused. He and I share many similarities, and I can relate to his situation and struggles in more ways than one, but I dealt with my demons as a boy and managed to overcome them on my own. Jack never did. He’d prefer to run than to face himself.” Tom sighed and removed his glasses to clean them with a rag he kept in the back pocket of his military uniform. “It’s…unfortunate.”

“I don’t see why the poor fella struggled so much. It’s not like anyone cares about orientation no more. And the people that do are just assholes, anyways. Why the heck does he care so much?”

Tom shook his head, chuckling and sitting back in his seat. “You’ve got a terrible way with words, Jesse. I really should teach you some proper linguistic skills.”

“Hey! I ain’t needin’ no language lessons from nobody never.”

“Of course not.”

Jesse’s face flashed red at the sarcasm and he suddenly wished he had his hat on to pull it over his face, his cheeks blazing under Tom’s teasing grin. “Now yuh stop y’r teasin’ ‘f me this instant!”

“ _Teasing_ ,” he corrected softly but obnoxiously.

“That’s what I said!” Jesse wailed. “Teasin’!”

Tom laughed and shook his head again before sliding his glasses back on his face. “I’m going to break you, Jesse McCree.”

“TOM, PLEASE!”

“I’ve got to get to my post,” Tom laughed amicably and stood to set his food in the yellow sink against his far wall. He grabbed his coat to pull it on before taking Jesse’s hat off his bed and placing it back on his friend’s moppy hair as Jesse released a series of embarrassed and frustrated mewls. “I think you should contact Jack.”

“ME?!” Jesse squawked 

“Yes, Jesse. You.”

“Why me? Why not you? Jack hates me!”

Tom smiled supportively, his thin eyebrows angling in a way that Jesse read as pity. “He doesn’t hate you, Jesse. He was just jealous. For a long time, Jack had no one to challenge him when it came to Gabriel’s attention, and suddenly you came along and Gabriel was spending time with you and not hounding after him. He didn’t handle it very well, that’s all. But Jack never hated you. He was dealing with many issues at the time, many of which were of personal nature and I’m obviously not at liberty to discuss, but I’m certain you’re smart enough to work things out.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know all’f that,” Jesse huffed and fidgeted with the brim of his hat. It was old and he really shouldn't be messing with the seams, but he couldn't help himself. “But why can’t you contact ‘im? Y'r 'is best friend, ain’t yuh? Wouldn’t ‘e be more inclined tuh listen tuh you?”

“Because if I do it, he’ll take it personally.” Tom leaned to adjust Jesse’s collar as the youth frowned up at him. He was close enough that Jesse could smell the mutfruit on his breath. “It needs to be a neutral party, and you’re the most neutral between the two of us. I’m sure it may not seem that way to you, but trust me, Jesse—if Jack wanted to talk to me, he’d be talking to me, and he hasn’t sent me a bird or message any more than he’s sent one to Gabriel. You have to do this.”

“Gosh dang it, Tommy. I don’t wanna...”

“Don’t be stubborn for the sake of being stubborn, Jesse. Jack may provide some insight, and neither of us can afford to be selfish here. Please?"  he pled. "For Gabriel.”

Jesse knew Tom was right, but shit, he didn’t really want to open a can of worms. Still, if anyone could help Gabe, it was probably Jack. “Fuck me. Fine!” he caved. “Fine, I’ll do it. But only ‘cause yuh asked so dang nicely. Yuh know I’m weak tuh those green eyes’f yours. It ain’t fair tuh use ‘em against me like that, Tommy. It just ain’t.”

“ _Isn_ ’t,” Tom corrected gently and gave Jesse a small pat on the head as the captain shot him an exasperated look. “I’ll see you later, Captain. Have a pleasant evening.”

“Right… You too, Tommy.”

Tom offered another little smile before he made his exit, his khaki coat gracefully billowing out the door the same way Jack’s had once done. Jesse liked to imagine that in some alternate reality he and Tom were like Gabe and Jack, running the watchpoint together in harmony—just without all of the awkward tension.

Maybe if Hanzo hadn’t absolutely ruined Jesse’s love-life for anyone else, they might have even been a thing.

Once he’d finished picking at his dinner and cleaning the dishes for Tom, Jesse started to walk out the door when something caught his eye. He turned and dropped his gaze to stare curiously at a small bottle on the floor, lying sideways like it had dropped off the table at some point or rolled from under the bed. He knelt to pick it up, turning the glass jar in his hands and eying the strange contents. It looked like…liquid metal? Mercury, maybe? Why then hell would Tom keep mercury in his house? The damn stuff was toxic, he knew that much. But it looked too dark to be mercury.

Jesse checked for any labels but only found what appeared to be a barcode on the bottom that meant nothing to him. The top was soft, like rubber, and had tiny pinholes in it.

He shrugged, deciding it was one of Tom’s nerdy things, and set it on his desk where he presumed it must have fallen from, and marched back towards his quarters.

Once home. Jesse unlatched his harness and set it and Peacekeeper beside his bed before dropping into a chair at his desk to check his messages. Since his promotion, he received occasional emails from other Gunner outposts and always put in effort to read and respond to them as appropriate. But this time it was going to be his turn to send one.

Gabe was going to turn him in to a damn couch if he ever found out about this, but Tom was right. It had to be done, and it had to be him that did it. Apparently.

Fuck.

> Major Jack Morrison,
> 
> Hey. This is Captain Jesse McCree. Long time no talk, Commander!
> 
> I hope things are working out for you in the Capital. I’d sure like to come see it someday. Commander Reyes says it’s pretty cool out there. I hope those Brotherhood jerks aren’t being too hard on you.
> 
> I’m still here at Blackwatch causing trouble. And you’ll be happy to know that Tom and I are pals now. We’ve been working together an awful lot since you left and he isn’t so bad a guy. He’s a little nerdy and sort of annoying as all get-up sometimes, but he’s pretty genuinely nice and I can see why you liked him so much. So. I guess things are good for me, job wise. Personally, though? Things have sort of gone to shit.
> 
> I’m going to skip the official mumbo-jumbo talk, if that’s okay with you.
> 
> Now I know you’re not going to want to hear this, and I hate to say it, but Reyes is a complete mess. As in he’s a total fucking disaster.
> 
> Normally I’d never contact you, since I’m pretty sure he’s going to skin me alive for sending this at all if he ever finds out about it, but I’m desperate and you’re the only guy I can think of that might be able to give me some advice, and things are looking to be getting worse rather than better.
> 
> Now let me make one thing crystal clear: I’m NOT asking you to come back. AT ALL. It’s frankly none of my business, and it’s been several months now without so much as a peep out of you, which is fine by me and I genuinely wish you the very best, and I’m sure if you intended on coming back you would have by now. But this isn’t about that. This isn’t about you, or me, or your relationship with the commander or whatever. This is about Gabe himself, as a person and as our friend. And I’d like to think that even after whatever crap went on between you two that you still count him as a friend.
> 
> A few months back, the commander and I went on a small job to get rid of some raiders down at Dunwich Borers (you know, that big marble quarry out North-East?) and he hasn’t been the same since.
> 
> I can’t very well say what caused it, or whether or not it had anything to do with the job. He might have gotten sick or something? But he hasn’t been eating, or COOKING, and he barely sleeps (like even less so than usual), and he won’t use his shotguns, and he insists on using a big knife-sword-thing he found in a god-forsaken pit in the ground, and he’s gotten a bit bloodthirsty (even for Gabe, like it’s becoming uncomfortable). He’s just... He’s acting odd. Real...odd.
> 
> What I’m getting at here is that I was hoping maybe in your decade of working with the guy that maybe you’d seen something like this in the past? And could maybe lend a poor kid a hand with some words of angelic blonde wisdom? It would be highly appreciated. If not, well, I figured maybe you’d at least want to hear about him, maybe. I’ve encouraged him to message you but he keeps saying it’ll get in the way of your work and other lame excuses like that. You two are so stubborn, I swear.
> 
> Anyways.
> 
> You may completely ignore this message. I know we weren’t exactly *best buds* when we parted ways and you’re just as likely to delete this as to bother reading it, but I sure hope you do. Because Gabe’s falling apart in front of my very eyes and I don’t have a damn clue what to do about it. Like... Do I leave him alone? Give the guy space? Or does he need real medical help? Like should I take him to a doctor in Diamond City or something? Or maybe it’s those weird robots that doctor lady stuck in him acting up? Or could it be a side-effect of that juice in your blood? I don’t have a damn clue, Jack.
> 
> I need help. GABE needs help. And you’re the only fella I know who could offer any advice worth a lick.
> 
> Please reply soon, if you can.
> 
> Thanks.
> 
> Your friend,
> 
> Captain Jesse McCree
> 
> Blackwatch, Commonwealth
> 
> PS: Tom really misses you.

All he could do now was wait.

Jesse got ready for bed, sipped a beer and finished reading his emails before he finally crashed, hoping he could get through the night without someone knocking on his door about this or that, and dreamed again of his archer.

 

“Jesse… Jesse… Jesse, wake up.”

He groaned before jerking awake, eyes wide but bleary. “Tom…?” Jesse squinted at his peer through the haze of sleep.

Tom was smiling over him, tender-eyed and gentle as ever, still dressed from his night-shift. “You slept through your alarm again. You’re lucky I came to check on you this time.”

“AW, SHIT!” Jesse threw his blanket off and nearly fumbled from the bed, caught by the chuckling lieutenant and set on his feet. Jesse pouted as he was wiped off like a child and swat at Tom some to discourage the embarrassing behavior. “Thanks, Tom. I dunno what Gabe might’f done tuh me if I’d been late.”

“You have fifteen minutes,” the taller soldier reported. How Tom still looked so bright-eyed and alert after his shift eluded him, but the teenager moved around him to begin getting dressed. “He’s having breakfast right now. I managed to convince him to have some juice and some mirelurk eggs with vegetables this morning. I even made it myself since he’s not really cooking anymore. I miss his cooking,” Tom sighed a bit dreamily.

“Thanks! Y’r a damn angel, Tommy.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” the lieutenant's freckled cheeks threatened to blush, “but I’m pleased that he’s eating.”

Jesse shook his head with some amusement at the soldier’s choice of words. “Dang, you really sound like Jack some days.”

“Is that a complement or a criticism?” he asked good-naturedly while watching Jesse frantically flit around his disorganized room.

“Pro’ly a bit’f both,” Jesse laughed.

“ _Probably_.”

“Don’t you start with me. It’s too early f’r me tuh be hittin’ yuh, Tom.”

“Jesse. Come here.”

“What?” Jesse looked up from where he was bouncing around the room, trying to get his right combat boot on.

“Sit,” Tom pointed at the bed. “Please.”

Jesse sighed dramatically but flopped onto his mattress, finishing with tying his shoe while Tom produced a comb from the pocket of his cargo pants and began to try to tame the mess of disheveled brown atop his head. “It’s just gonna get messy again,” he grumbled. “Hat hair, y’know.”

“Perhaps, but I can’t take a moment more of this disaster,” the lieutenant grinned. “You really should take better care of yourself. You’d clean up nicely, if you put in an effort.”

“Tom, we live in a dirt bowl filled with radiation, and we eat bugs and dogs.”

“That’s no excuse not to be presentable.”

Jesse rolled his brown eyes but remained still as his peer finished combing his hair. “Are yuh done fussin’ over me yet?”

Tom nodded with some satisfaction and moved his bangs a little bit before sliding the comb back into place like it were a damn combat knife. “You’re…acceptable.”

Jesse hopped up. “Great! Now get out’f my room, nerd!”

“Rude,” Tom smirked and backed away to give him room to finish getting himself together. “Did you message Jack?”

“Yup,” Jesse nodded and put his hat on, making a show of messing his hair up again enough that his friend shook his head. “I did last night.”

“Have you heard back?”

“Tom, I literally just woke up.”

“Ah. Right. My apologies.”

Jesse stared at him expectantly but Tom just stared back. “Go!” he finally shooed him towards the door. “Out!”

“Let me know if you hear back from Jack,” Tom managed before he was shoved out the door. “I’ll be awake in six hours or so. We can try for a late lunch?”

“Right, right, lunch. Talk to you later, Tommy-boy!” Jesse called through his window, watching Tom glance over his shoulder as he meandered back towards his own residence. Jesse sighed loudly and sat to check his email. “Holy fuckin' shit,” he cursed under his breath. In his inbox was an unread message: ‘RE: PLEASE REPLY SOON.’

Jack had actually responded. Wow. Okay. Jesse hadn't honestly expected it. And so fast, too. Christ.

Jesse opened the message, simultaneously eager but anxious, hopeful for some insight. Shameful as it was to admit, Jack was his only chance at fixing whatever the hell was going on with Gabe.

> Captain McCree,
> 
> You’re always welcome to come to the Capital, though I doubt Lieutenant Reyes would permit it without a good reason. He hates the Gunners out here and prefers to keep his men close. And I know for a fact that he’ll want to avoid me at all costs, so you’d be on your own.
> 
> Thank you for your concern. The Brotherhood of Steel occasionally gets in the way of my work and we have butt heads a few times, but I've been working hard to establish an air of tolerance with them. We currently have an armistice with them that has held well for the last four months and I’m confident it shall hold for the foreseeable future, under their current leadership.
> 
> I’m glad to hear that you’re continuing to excel in your post at Blackwatch and that you and Lt. Stultz are getting along. Tom was always an excellent soldier and a very good friend. He’s incredibly accountable and I’m certain he’ll continue to impress you with his generosity and geniality.
> 
> As far as Lt. Reyes goes, I’m regretful to hear things are going poorly for him. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever had a situation where he neglected to cook. That strikes me as odd, and yes, a bit concerning.
> 
> I’m regretful to admit that I’m uncertain how I would personally handle your current situation. The lieutenant and I were good friends and I’d like to think I knew him very well, but I was never good at managing his moods, good or bad. Trying to control or tame him is like ‘trying to rope a radnado.’ (I trust that my attempts at mimicking your colorful idioms are a bit lacking, but I’m certain you appreciate my efforts.)
> 
> Thank you for being so considerate for Gabriel, especially when he’s so terrible at taking care of himself. It’s comforting to know that he has someone looking out for him. He needs that more than most people.
> 
> Lt. Reyes is first and foremost a man of passion, and it’s my personal opinion that this could be a side-effect of a larger issue — ideally one unrelated to me. He could be lonely or suffering from a particularly bad bout of PTSD, which he occasionally dealt with when we were younger. Or it could be that he’s looking to get laid off. Before I left, he expressed to me how much he hated his job. I encouraged him to retire but he’s obviously ignored my recommendation. Perhaps you would have more luck in that regard.
> 
> I apologize for not being more helpful. I will openly admit that the lieutenant and I parted company a bit bitterly but I would never wish harm or distress upon him. He was my closest peer and I consider him to still be as much, even if we aren’t talking and will likely not see one another again in this lifetime.
> 
> I’ll ask around about suggestions for treating and/or managing his odd behaviors. If a doctor suggests that he sees a professional, I’ll make certain to send someone in your direction ASAP.
> 
> Thank you for not discussing this conversation with your commander, as we both know how well he’d take it knowing I’m communicating with you but not him. I have my reasons for doing so, all of which are personal, and I appreciate you not demanding I return or speak with him, as I shall be doing neither.
> 
> That being said, please do not contact me again, as it would be inviting disaster and it sounds like things are bad enough as it stands. Trust me when I say this is for the best – for all of us.
> 
> Goodbye, Jesse.
> 
> And good luck.
> 
> Your friend,
> 
> Major Jack Morrison
> 
> Rivet City, Capital Wasteland
> 
> PS: Tell Lt. Stultz that I wish him the best. I miss him, too.

Well shit. Jack wasn’t much help at all.

Jesse sat back in his chair, digesting the message again before he stood to report to his post.

It looked like they were on their own.

He and Tommy were damn shit out of luck.

 

“How’s your recent project coming along?”

“ _Project: Reaper_ is hardly recent, Dr. Virgil,” the red-head commented dryly as she studied the blood sample under her microscope. “It’s simply an extension of _Project_ : _Human Longevity_. But if you must know, it's progressing beyond my expectations. Subject Reaper has been accepting the new dosages of nanites exceedingly well. They're appropriating his cells en-mass as we speak. The process shall require many more months of gradual insertion, of course, but I shall succeed,” of that she was confident.

"I heard rumors that his recent samples showed signs of abnormalities."

She looked up, smirking to herself and changing out the samples. “He’s currently suffering some sort of…illness. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. His genes are rapidly mutating.”

“Could it be radiation damage, maybe?”

“No. It’s a virus," she clarified. "But it’s either non-contagious or seems to only prefer my subject.”

Dr. Virgil arched an eyebrow and she moved to allow him a peek while she rushed to grab papers being spit out of a machine. “Fascinating,” he observed. “The nanites seem to be attacking his cells… Is that intended?”

“They’re attempting to purge the subject of any infected cells. The nanites are designed to replace dead or damaged cells, gradually becoming more and more of the subject’s mass over time, but the virus seems to be progressing it much quicker than I originally intended. The nanites are reading the genealogical mutations as abnormalities and are expunging them from his system, but the virus is mutating too quickly for them to kill them all. They’re learning from one another. It’s astonishing to observe.”

“I see… And you’re certain this virus is non-contagious?”

“It has yet to become as much, if so. Don't worry, Doctor," she chuckled. "I’m taking proper measures to control it. His samples are being moved to a clean room in the new FEV labs.”

“You should probably destroy these.”

“Of course, Doctor,” she purred pensively and thumbed through her paperwork. “I’m taking this all quite seriously. But this must be studied. It’s almost…alien…in nature. Simply remarkable. It could hold untold value for us and for our studies on genetic mutation, and natural and artificially-encouraged evolution.”

Dr. Virgil removed the sample to change to another slide. “What are the mutations?”

“You’ll have a chance to read my report, same as everyone else.”

He moved from the microscope and watched her thin lips curl back. “All right. Well…good luck, Dr. O’Deorain.”

“I won’t need much luck. But thank you, Dr. Virgil. I look forward to beginning the FEV project with you.”

“You're a bit eager to be saying as much this early in the game. I haven’t even applied my papers for requesting the project yet,” he laughed.

“I’m certain you shall succeed, Doctor. Your FEV studies would be valuable to our research on evolution. The Director will have to listen to us once he’s read your work. He would have to be a fool not to. I've seen it myself, after all, and can personally say it's exceptional. Should you require any internal support or references, please let me know.”

“Well…thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

"Of course. We geneticists have to stick together. The Institute doesn't have as many of us as it should."

 _“Paging Dr. Brian Virgil to BioScience,”_ a robotic voice droned through the speakers in the corners of their small lab. _“Dr. Virgil to BioScience.”_

“Great. It would seem that I’m being summoned by the powers that be,” he sighed and grabbed his things before wandering out of the laboratory. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Moira. I look forward to reading your paper.”

"Have a good day, Brian." Moira didn't look up as she slid another sample in, peeking at the tiny machines as they worked their magic.

It was only a matter of time now before she proved to these uninspired fools that she could master death.

And Moira was patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jesse gets stuck with the crap job of trying to keep Gabriel from falling apart or killing everyone, and Jack isn’t much help. Luckily for Jesse, Tom’s at least pretty good for emotional support and looks after him.  
> And hello there, Moira. The Institute finally raises its head.  
> We check back in on Jack next chapter.


	7. SS-76

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets a second chance at a new life but not in the way he’d expected.  
> There’s some guest POV tossed in here.

He’d ran. Ran from himself. Ran from Gabriel. Ran from his one chance at happiness.

Their relationship had been friendly but professional, but twelve years of closely working together and nearly dying together time and time again had knocked down the carefully constructed walls between them. It had only been a matter of time before Gabriel stepped over that final barrier separating them from being best friends and something more. But even a decade’s worth of Jack’s insecurities being blunted and thinned hadn’t been enough to prepare him for it, because his first instinct was to run. So when he’d been approached for reassignment, he’d taken it, and he’d made a point not to tell Gabriel until the last minute to avoid the inevitable confrontation.

He was a total coward.

Things could have still been fixed if they’d only talked it through, but he’d left anyways, and he hadn’t even said a proper goodbye. Looking back, he wished he’d at least done that much, but the prospect of facing Gabriel again had been daunting. Jack wouldn’t have been able to leave if Reyes had asked him to stay even one more time, his voice vulnerable in a way the blonde had never heard before.

A year in to his new station and Jack wasn’t any happier than he’d been at Blackwatch. In fact, he was approaching miserable. He buried himself in his work the way he always did when trying to keep his mind afloat from the cold acidity of his own thoughts, desperate to ignore the biting and gnawing and bloated nerves. But it hadn’t helped. No amount of paperwork or blowing holes through skulls could repair the damage he’d done.

He missed Gabriel.

Desperately.

Bringing Gabriel on himself would have been showing favoritism and would have been certainly been frowned upon, so Jack had tried to get another commander to extend an offer to bring Gabriel to the Capital but hadn’t had much luck. The lieutenant was notorious for his hostility towards other Gunner posts and for being “too generous.” No one wanted Lt. Gabriel Reyes in their ranks in the Capital Wasteland, particularly with news coming in that he was suffering some sort of emotional crisis.

Jesse had honored his request to not contact him again, so Jack only had hearsay regarding Gabriel’s condition, mostly that he’d become increasingly hostile, temperamental, and had supposedly executed a member of his own team at some point fairly recently. Nothing that even remotely sounded like the Gabriel Reyes Jack had left behind. It had to be exaggerated. Gabriel was absurdly overprotective of his soldiers, and the mere idea of him turning against any of them for literally any reason besides aiming their gun in his face was preposterous.

The only option Jack had to work with him again would have been to go back. Gabriel would have probably even forgiven him, but Jack’s pride stood resolutely in the way. He’d be giving up his new title and all of the notoriety that he’d worked so hard for, throwing it all away just to return with his tail between his legs to a stagnant position at Blackwatch. He knew himself well enough to concede that maybe he’d at least be happier there. Gabriel was there, after all.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t go back. Jack was too filled with shame and regret and a fear of having to face those burning amber eyes again to find the willpower to step foot back in the Commonwealth.

He’d dug his grave and now he’d been buried in it.

 

“ _SS-76_.” Warmth stirred in his chest as his mind flickered from the edge of absolute nothingness. “ _Can you hear me? SS-76, I command you to respond_.”

His eyelids opened and Jack inhaled what felt like his first breath, the white of his netherworld flashing and withdrawing into the vacuum.

The last thing he remembered was the pressure of bullets shredding his chest and a white heat blanching him into an oblivion of drifting. He now found himself strapped to an angled metal table; it was cold but not enough so to be unpleasant. There was a soft whirring and inconsistent beeping all around him, and the air smelled sharp with bleach and chemicals. There were nothing but pristine white everywhere and bright lights.

Was he dead?

Jack squinted through the glare to see a pale woman with short, fiery hair and one red and one blue eye, busy investigating him as one might inspect damaged machinery. “Can you see me?” her voice was heavily-accented and familiar.

“Get the hell out of my face.”

His response ignited a pleased expression in her odd eyes. “Good,” she grinned. “What is your name?”

Where he was and who this woman was, Jack had no idea. The most pressing question at the forefront of his hazy thoughts was how the hell was he alive? Even with his enhanced speed of healing there was no surviving taking a mini-gun straight to the chest. “Fuck off, lady.”

“What is your name?” her tone hardened and Jack glared at her before opting to comply.

“Major Jack Morrison.” He gave a meek tug to test his restraints, surprised at how well they held firm against his enhanced muscles. “Who the hell are you and where am I?”

“How old are you, Major?”

“Old enough to not answer that question,” he snorted.

“How _old_?”

There was something cold and malevolent in her strange eyes that compelled his cooperation. “Thirty-six,” he growled. “I’m thirty-six.”

“Good,” the woman hummed and quickly scribbled something on her notepad, erasing a line and wiping pink flakes off the too-white paper. How was everything so damn white? “Where were you born?”

“On a farm in Bloomington, Indiana. Now are you going to be kind enough to tell me why you have me tied down to a god damn table?”

“Where was the most recent place you lived?”

Jack snarled and slammed his head back to glower at the ceiling. The tiles were evenly placed with no signs of rot and were a shade of white that struck him as astonishing to see so immaculate. “Just outside of Rivet City.”

“And before that?”

“Watchpoint Blackwatch,” he grit. “A Gunner outpost in the Commonwealth.”

“And who was your second in command?”

He turned his eyes back on her, the blues darkening. “Why the hell do you want to know that?”

The woman was back to writing on her notepad, not even looking at him. “A name please, Major.”

“Gabriel Reyes,” Jack nearly choked on the syllables as they formed and were forced from his throat, the sound of it lancing through his chest like a hot knife and threatening to bleed him dry. He hadn’t dared speak that name aloud in a year. “Lieutenant Gabriel Reyes.”

“Excellent,” she smirked and turned to motion at someone outside the edges of his vision. “The subject seems to have suitably accepted the memories. Let’s perform some basic physical base-testing before we begin the process of getting him approved for release. Father intends on interviewing this unit personally and I want to make sure that everything is perfect before he arrives at 1400.”

Now convinced that his questions would continue to be ignored, Jack began to tug more insistently at his binds, now more alert and feeling his muscles waking up. But no amount of squirming or jerking loosened the too-clean metal bracing him to the table, and exasperation began to take hold.

“Struggle all you want but you’re going nowhere,” she commented behind him, amusement and pride chiming along the edge of her accent. “Even you should have trouble breaking through titanium. You should appreciate all of the effort I went through to properly restrain you. You’ve caused me quite the trouble.”

“Who the hell are you?!” he hissed. “Where am I?!”

The woman appeared at his right, cradling her chart to her thin chest and looking smug and at least mildly dangerous enough that she actually unsettled him a good bit. “You really don’t remember me, do you?”

Jack squinted, his blue eyes darting and searching her face. “Remember you?”

“My name is Dr. O’Deorain.”

“MOIRA!” he lunged in his restraints, snapping his teeth like a chained dog. “FUCKING _MOIRA_!”

“Ah, good,” she purred, unflinching. “I was beginning to become concerned that your memories were damaged. Crisis averted.”

“You’re the bitch who stuck Gabe and I full of those old-world chemicals!”

“Yes,” she confirmed. "I ran the Gunner-revised Soldier Enhancement Program. Gabriel and Jack were both my most exemplary of test subjects. My work on SEP is what brought me here, actually.”

 _Were_.

Jack felt every cell in his body freeze. “Is Gabe…dead?”

“No. Gabriel is not dead. Jack Morrison, however, is. Regretful, but oh well.”

He stared at her blankly, uncertain what she was getting at. “Excuse me?”

The scientist’s face twisted devilishly, her narrow lips hooking upward and her dual-colored eyes glinting in the bright lights of the lab. “Jack Morrison is dead,” she repeated. “He expired a few days ago during a raid on a super-mutant hive. You’re a synthetic human clone of Jack Morrison—a synth.”

Her words took a moment to register. “What the hell did you just call me?”

Jack had heard of ‘synths’ before. They were supposedly advanced robots that paraded as humans, utilized to spy on people and penetrate society. But he’d assumed all the rumors were nothing but paranoid gossip amongst a tense populous; a simple boogeyman to explain away all of the terrible shit that went on that most people just couldn’t or didn’t want to understand.

“You’re a synth,” she repeated evenly, her eyelids lowering as she studied him for response. “A robot constructed of flesh and blood, rather than plastic and metal. Every one of your bones, every muscle, every last cell was planned and placed meticulously, and Mr. Morrison’s memories have been dutifully copied and replanted to pick you up precisely where he expired. I’d be very curious to know what it’s like, having the memories of someone dying,” Moira purred. “Perhaps you shall enlighten me.”

Jack struggled harder against his reigns, eager to show her just how strong her _super-serum_ had made him. He could rip a door clean off a car, and it would require little effort to relieve her shoulders of her god damn head. “I’m not a SYNTH!”

 “Oh, but you are.” Moira hovered her face in and Jack found himself pressing against the cold metal, turning away as she sneered closely enough that he could smell the cinnamon on her breath “Your body has been uniquely designed to replicate and even improve upon Jack’s increased physical statistics, so don’t you worry about being sub-par. You should honestly be grateful. This body is healthier, sturdier, and faster than his could have ever hoped to have been, even with his genetic modifications.” The scientist ran her spidery fingers along his ribs, drawing attention to the fact that he was dressed only in a stark-white towel pinned around his waist. Jack coiled under her touch, trying to twist from it, which only seemed to amuse her when he couldn’t. “Unfortunately, I had to design you with all of Jack’s scars,” she grumbled, “but we can’t have you looking any different from the original. And I’ll have you know that it wasn’t terribly easy a task to undertake, with how mutilated his carcass was delivered to me. You’ve been a rather challenging but enlightening project.”

His blue eyes dropped to the dark blue lab tiles. “I’m…not Jack Morrison.” There was a finality to the statement. A truth. An acceptance.

Something flowered somewhere inside of him, like a light being switched on in his brain. He didn’t need to see whatever was left of the real Jack to know that she wasn’t lying.

“No. You’re not Jack Morrison,” she smirked. “You’re simply an…advanced reinterpretation.”

“I’m a synth… A robot… A…copy.”

Most people would probably be horrified by the prospect of waking up as a duplicate of someone else—as a completely fake person—and maybe he was a little bit, but more than anything he felt relief. Jack Morrison was dead, and all of his terrible choices went with him. He, was his own being, separate from Jack but linked to his life experiences through memories; a reincarnated soul with the same face.

He’d been offered a new beginning, and like hell he wasn’t going to take it.

“Correct,” Moira smirked satisfactorily. “You’re designated as unit ‘SS-76’ and you’re going to do exactly as you’re told.”

He glanced up. “Or what? You’ll _scrap_ me or something?”

Moira leaned in and Jack’s muscles involuntarily clenched beneath her witchy gaze. “It would be in both our best interests not to give me a reason to disassemble you and start from scratch. All right?”

“Yes,” SS-76 swallowed and nodded. “Understood.”

“Good,” she pat his cheek before vanishing behind him again. “Let’s begin those tests. Dr. Ziegler is due to arrive within the hour and I want things started.”

 

SS-76 glanced up from where he was having his blood drawn after an extensive series of workouts. He was sweating but rapidly recovering when a new woman entered the room. Another doctor dressed in white and green. She was young and pretty, pale-skinned, blue-eyed, and with platinum-blonde hair. Jack probably would have found her attractive; SS-76 did not.

“How is our newest addition doing?”

“Superbly,” Moira hummed over the results on a terminal behind him. “He’s performing excellently. Exactly as planned. And his memory-mapping is absolutely exquisite. You really must take a look at the results for yourself,” she offered a tablet, which the stranger accepted to glance over. “I’ve created a backup file of the host subject’s memories in case this unit somehow proves flawed, of course, but it seems to be doing well thus far. We’ve performed a basic physical, which he easily passed, and I was just beginning to prepare to move on to written and oral tests. How are you doing this morning, Dr. Ziegler?”

“I’m well,” she smiled and handed the tablet back to Moira before approaching the synth. Dr. Ziegler pushed some platinum hair behind an ear and offered a hand, certainly more friendly than any of the other scientists had been towards him thus far. SS-76 was getting the real impression that he was meant to be quiet and compliant, and he wasn’t about to risk his neck just for the sake of some stress relief. He needed to cooperate and put on a good show for these assholes if he planned on surviving long enough to figure out an escape. “You’re SS-76, correct? The synthetic duplicate of Mr. Jack Morrison?”

He stared at her hand, glancing nervously at the watching scientists before he took it and shook it firmly. “Uh...yeah. I guess that’s me.”

“My name is Dr. Angela Ziegler. I’ll be your attending physician here at the Institute. I’m glad to see that you’re functioning optimally.”

“Dr. Ziegler,” he repeated as mechanically as possible. “Pleased to meet you.”

“So polite,” she giggled. Dr. Ziegler snatched a chair and sat down, keeping her expression gentle and voice soft as though accustomed to dealing with people under stress. “SS-76, I’m aware that your situation is…unique. You’re a legitimate replica of a human being, complete with a copied psychological profile—a real rarity. It's all right for you to be nervous or confused or even angry, but I assure you that your life here shall be healthy and that you’ll be given the best technology has to offer to ensure your success. We work very hard to ensure our synths are healthy.”

“What Dr. Ziegler _means_ to say,” Moira interjected, “is that the expectations of you are different from average synths.”

“Your emotional and psychological responses are bound to be more advanced than most other synths, since you’ve quite literally inherited Mr. Morrison’s memories and all of course emotions associated with those memories,” Dr. Ziegler clarified.

“Other synths don’t get memories like I did?”

“Not generally, no. The ones that are sent above ground receive basic education on what they should know to operate and survive on the surface, as well as a run-down of the person they are intended to…replicate.” She turned her eyes down a bit and tucked some hair behind an ear before smiling at him again. “But the human they’re modeled after is generally very much alive at that time. To be quite blunt, you’re more human than most synths could ever aspire to be.”

“Don’t call it a human, Angela,” Moira scolded. “You’ll risk giving it a complex. Unit SS-76 is still a robot and shall always be such, more human-like or otherwise.”

“Yes. Of course. Human-like,” the blonde corrected herself. “My apologies, Doctor.”

“I’ve already alerted the SRB that this unit may suffer more…quirks…than most synths,” Moira added while reading over the printed results of his tests. “I don’t need them disassembling it just because SS-76 is feistier than other units. I think I’m going to enjoy having a more human-like synth under my wing. Synths are all too often so boring. It’s about time we learned to make ones with some fire in their veins.”

Dr. Ziegler smoothed her lab coat along her lap. “Father wouldn’t like that.”

“He may change his mind after interviewing this unit.”

“When is he due to arrive?”

“This afternoon. About four hours. Long enough to complete our testing.”

“Good.” Dr. Ziegler stood and offered 76 another smile. “You’re going to do just fine. No need to be nervous, okay?”

SS-76 didn’t know how to respond to the conversation and settled on a small nod before turning his eyes away while Moira prepared her papers.

“Look, you’ve gone and made him nervous,” Dr. Ziegler complained. “He’ll barely even look me in the eye.”

“It’s functioning fine. Given time, it shall adjust to its new environment. It’s rather like having a robotic dog, though hopefully this one won’t piss all over the carpet.”

“Dr. O’Deorain, synths may be robotic but they have flesh. You can at least address SS-76 by his gender.”

“If we treat it like a man, it will begin to believe it is a man. SS-76 is not a man, Dr. Ziegler. It is a synth, a _robot_ , and it shall be addressed as such. We already suffer enough problems with them scampering off and I won’t have my shiny new project being tainted due to your asinine insistence that they have legitimate intelligence.”

“He was made from the memories of a dead man, Moira. He woke up believing he had an actual identity and it’s been stripped. He’s probably terrified and you’re not helping the situation by talking to him like a toaster.”

Moira sighed and dumped a pile of paper-bound test sheets into the synth’s lap. “I expect these tests to be completed within two hours.” She held out a pencil. “Understood?”

SS-76 arched an eyebrow at the papers before accepting the pencil and nodded obediently. “Yes. Understood.”

“See? What a good little toaster,” Moira pat his head before walking into another room.

Dr. Ziegler watched Moira leave before placing a hand on his shoulder as he began the task of glancing through his assignments. “Don’t let her get to you. You may be a synthetic man but you’re a man all the same. If you need anything, please let me know, all right?”

“Yes. Thank you, Doctor,” he nodded. “I appreciate that.”

“Do you…remember it?” She removed her hand and hugged a notepad to her chest, frowning quietly down on him. “Dying?”

“Some of it. My head’s still a bit jumbled.”

The doctor offered another tender smile. “It’ll settle down in a few days,” she assured. “Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“I’ll see what I can snag for you from the cafeteria. Hang in there, all right?”

He nodded and she offered another smile before she walked away, leaving him to work on the multitude of written tests Moira had assigned.

At least it looked like he had one friend here, which was still one friend more than Jack ever had at the Capital. The Institute was looking better than the Gunners every damn second.

 

Ever since learning that his father was alive, Shaun had begun to ask questions, his mind clouding with “what ifs” and “what could have beens” enough that meeting the synth clone of his uncle’s descendant made his blood burn. And it was astonishing, simply astonishing, to witness their resemblance. SS-76 looked so much like his father than it nearly made Shaun’s knees buckle.

He only had one pre-war photograph of his father: a bust taken for the original Soldier Enhancement Program. The photo was a copy taken from some old-world files they’d stumbled across when doing research on the program Moira had re-envisioned before she’d been brought on, but it was the first time he’d ever seen his father’s face.

Nathanial Sole Washington was a handsome man, with pale skin, large blue eyes, and unkempt, warm blonde hair the same color as his own. Shaun shared his facial structure and slender edges, and they were nearly the same height at just under six foot. It had sparked in him a long-forgotten desire to learn about where he came from and to know his parents.

His mother was dead, having been unfairly executed by Kellogg when Shaun had first been taken from Vault 111, but his father still slept peacefully there, many miles from his current position, safe and blissfully unaware of the plethora of dangers lurking just above ground.

Shaun had an uncle who’d also entered the SEP program and had died in Anchorage during the Great War, but not before leaving his wife pregnant. Shaun had dug up records that she’d been relocated and ended up in a control vault in West Virginia and had given birth there. Her son was raised there and ended up leaving the vault when he was in his mid twenties. Ultimately, the records ended quite abruptly due to a mass vault exodus, but the boy had managed to father genetically-enhanced offspring of his own.

The synth Dr. O’Deorain had insisted upon designing herself was a perfect duplicate of the descendant of that man. Shaun’s and Jack’s DNA told that story as much. ‘Major Jack Morrison’ had been Shaun’s cousin, many times removed but a cousin nonetheless, and the director had been eager to meet his cousin’s shadow. SS-76 didn’t disappoint.

Shaun had seen black and white stills of Mr. Morrison but they paled in comparison to the clone of the real thing. He was striking: pale and golden, strong and tall, and armed with the same clear and florescent blues as his own. A simple glance between them was all it would take to catch a resemblance, and if the look of surprise on the synth’s face told him anything, he’d seen it too.

“Good afternoon, Doctors,” he greeted. The synth assistants and nurses scattered off, nodding shyly but amicably at their father before they hastily vanished. Shaun held his hands behind his back and flit his cerulean eyes towards the nervous blonde sitting at a table in the corner. “How is your latest subject’s baseline testing going?”

“Unit SS-76 is the embodiment of synthetic perfection. His brain mapping is superb and his enhanced physical statistics are exactly as I projected,” Dr. O’Deorain assured him, always eager to peacock to the young director. “I couldn’t be happier, to be quite frank.”

Shaun was only forty-one years old and had only been the director for a little over a year, the youngest ever assigned. He was still warranting his place but his acuity and intelligence had naturally led him into the position, so much so that none of the older and more experienced scientists had questioned his assignment when the previous director passed. Dr. O’Deorain was working hard to keep in his good graces, always eager to test him with her outlandish ideas and peculiar experiments.

She was one of the only members of the new and experimental BioEngineering division, a subdivision of BioScience, and she excelled at studying and activating mutations through FEV and other chemicals meant to mutate genes. Her projects were copious and spanned a wide diversity of scientific branches, but he knew her well enough to know that her favorite study was one regarding the evolution of humans and how to further progress it. She’d even done numerous experiments on herself, most before her time here, which resulted in some rather unusual transformations to her own genome. Shaun made a point to keep close and monitor her work in case he needed to reign it in. Even the Institute had scientific scruples they didn’t like to cross.

“How is he doing, knowing what he is and what he is not?” Shaun questioned, keeping his voice low so as not to upset the nervous being studying him. Such queries were not typically obligatory or even deliberated, but most synths weren’t typically brought online with a full set of memories either. Tests with memory and how it affected synths from the previous generations had an assortment of outcomes, and SS-76 was yet another opportunity to augment the study, old as it was.

“SS-76 seems well, all things considered,” Dr. Ziegler answered. “He’s quiet and a bit uneasy, and maybe a little scared, but that’s all standard behavior and should diminish in time. He seems to have taken very easily to the reality of being a replica of Mr. Morrison.”

“He hardly questioned it at all,” Dr. O’Deorain puffed.

“All right. Thank you, both of you. I’d like to talk to the unit alone, if possible.”

“Of course, Director,” the red-head grabbed her companion by the arm and dragged her out of the room and in to the hall as Dr. Ziegler offered the synth a supportive smile.

Angela was always sympathetic towards synths, something Shaun very quietly and personally appreciated. Synths weren’t humans, but they were…something. They were made for labor and study but they were semi-intelligent beings and he didn’t prefer that they suffered. Knowing how closely related they were to him, Shaun found it was difficult to see them in pain, though he certainly kept these feelings to himself. He wasn’t about to risk his welfare just for a highly-advanced AI, even if the chassis was something akin to a physical offspring of some kind.

Shaun took an aluminum chair and quietly sat down, folding his hands on the table while SS-76 made a point to look away. His survival instincts were strong. “Unit SS-76,” he started. “Or perhaps you prefer Jack?”

“I’m not Jack.”

“No, you are not, but you are a close proximity. It would be acceptable in your case if you desired to be referred to by his name, so long as you are aware that you are _not_ Mr. Morrison. You are SS-76, a synth. At least physically. Mentally, I am aware that you are a near perfect copy of Mr. Morrison, which I am certain causes you confusion and distress, both of which are expected and within reason for your state but are expected to pass in time.”

“That’s what they tell me,” the synth shrugged. He was working hard to meet whatever expectation he’d decided Shaun and the rest of the doctors were looking for, but his ‘humanity’ was more than evident in his mannerisms. SS-76 was more casual in his movements, in the way he turned his eyes away. So human-like that it verged discomfort.

The strides they’d taken to replicate humanity in just a few short decades were astonishing, even to Shaun. Most synths could pass as human, and many did. Some failed in that respect, suffering social anxiety or issues with communication skills, but this one was already showing promise. The way the synth’s leg bounced under the table was telling of that much. Synth intelligence was rapidly approaching true self-awareness and this was one of the reasons they didn’t make true copies of human minds—there was a great deal more risk involved.

“Do you feel like you are?”

“Like I’m what?”

“Mr. Morrison?”

“I mean…I thought that’s who I was when I woke up. Err…was ‘activated’, or whatever you call it. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good. That is very good. It means the memories mapped appropriately.” That earned him a snort but Shaun ignored it. “What is the last thing you recall?”

“Dying, I guess,” the synth shrugged casually. “Though it’s still sort of blurry. It hurt like hell though and I sure wouldn’t opt to do it again. I think I’ll be avoiding miniguns for the foreseeable future, if at all possible.”

“I am sorry to hear that. That must be…difficult, experiencing death through someone else’s eyes. You have the memories of a man who suffered a great deal of trauma before he passed. Most people cannot fathom it.”

“I’m not a person.”

Shaun grinned at the certainty in the synth’s voice. “You are certainly not stupid, are you?”

“I’d like to think that I’m not. Jack wasn’t.”

“No, he was certainly not.” Shaun presented some paperwork from the inner pocket of his lab coat and set it on the table, sliding it towards SS-76, who accepted it to glance over. “Based on the tests Dr. O’Deorain sent me, Mr. Morrison was quite intelligent for a man raised above ground. Most people in the over-world are lucky to be able to read nowadays. And here you are, inheriting quite an impressive IQ.”

The synth glanced up from the paperwork in his hand. “Uh… Thanks, I guess.”

“Tell me, SS-76, what do you think of this place? Of The Institute?”

“I don’t really know, to be honest. It’s sort of…overwhelming. Really bright… And…clean… It’s pretty damn awful upstairs. Above ground, I mean. Based on Jack’s memories.”

“That is reasonable. Do you have any questions? I shall do my best to answer them.”

The synth eyed him warily with those beautiful, reflective blues. “Why? Why did you make me? Why make a copy of Jack Morrison?”

“That is a…complicated…question.” Shaun leaned back some in his chair. “We here at The Institute go to great lengths to study the population, and the deteriorated social and physical environment above us. Intermittently, this requires that we create synths with the intention of substituting a person for deeper study in to a specific location or subject of interest. In your case, Jack Morrison is expired, but his body was fresh enough for us to take advantage of the situation.

“Dr. O’Deorain has a very specific plan for you, one which I am not currently willing to discuss, but it is for a project she has great interest in and passion for. I am permitting this project to progress under the pretense that you are utilized to provide intelligence regarding the Gunners and their outposts.”

“So…you want me to be a spy.”

“In short, yes.”

“Does that mean you’re sending me to the Capital to pose as Jack Morrison?”

“In part. There is more, but it shall be revealed in time. Firstly, you have more tests to complete before you’re cleared for duty here at our primary hub. You are to report in to the Synth Retention Bureau for more physical testing and some interviews. And then, in time, once you have been properly trained, you shall be sent above ground to pose as Mr. Morrison, amongst other things.”

“The Gunners are going to notice my— _his_ —absence.”

“You let us deal with that. You should focus on adjusting to your life here and on impressing Dr. Zimmer and the SRB.”

“You’re being a lot nicer to me than I’d expect for a guy running an underground science lab printing out a bunch of slaves.”

“The synth program is far more complicated than that. We are attempting to create not only the perfect robot but the perfect Man. Everything we do here at the Institute is to progress Humanity forward towards a brighter and healthier future.”

SS-76 offered a noncommittal snort. “Right.”

“Perhaps you shall come to understand in time.”

“So are you going to tell me why we look like brothers?”

“Mr. Morrison and I were related. Distantly, but still related. It would seem that two-hundred years of genetic dilution was not enough to expunge our physical similarities. And you, by association, resemble me as well. It is quite…amusing.”

“Amusing? I mean, I guess.”

“Do you have any more questions?”

“Can I maybe just go by 76?” he asked. “SS-76 is kind of a mouthful.”

“I believe that to be an acceptable request, but keep the casual use of it to conversations,” Shaun cautioned. “You must always respond to and report in as your proper designation.”

“Right. I mean, understood.”

“76, how do you feel about the idea of working for the Institute?”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” the synth shrugged. “I mean, I’ll do my part. I know how to play ball and I’m not about to throw my one and only chance at life away just to be snarky. Will I get to shoot something, at least?”

“Seeing as how closely you’ll be working with the SRB, I believe that will be inevitable, yes.”

“Then I’ll be fine.”

“You will be required to lie and manipulate people you will believe were your friends.”

“ _Friends_?” the synth snorted sardonically. “That’s a pretty damn generous word for ‘coworkers’. Jack hated them all. I’ll gladly cooperate if it means getting back as some of those assholes. They’re just…bullies. I mean, the ones at Blackwatch were all right. They helped run raiders off of settlements and stuff. But the ones elsewhere? Trash. Human fucking garbage. But Jack knew that and still worked with them and I don’t really understand why. I guess even though I have his memories, I can see things from a different perspective. Is that…normal?”

“If you are properly disassociating from Mr. Morrison and identifying as a separate being, then yes. I’d say seeing things from a different point of view would be more than appropriate.”

“So…I’m not…faulty?”

“No, 76. I do not believe you are faulty. You passed your primary testing. You have no reason to be so nervous. We are simply talking.”

“Dr. O’Deorain made it pretty clear that if I were broken or ‘glitched’ that I was screwed, and you’re obviously here to give me the gold star on my ticket or something. You wouldn’t be wasting your time with me like this, if not.”

“I prefer to personally interview all special synth projects,” Shaun grinned. “But you are not incorrect. I am here to dissect your social skills and to pass judgement on your readiness to be cleared for duty, but I believe it to be apparent that you are more than qualified to operate here. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders. Dr. O’Deorain programmed and built you well.”

“All right. Then can I ask why they call you Father? It’s a little weird.”

Shaun found himself grinning, encouraged at the synth’s growing inquisitiveness. Most synths were expected to answer straight-forwardly and without much charisma, but 76 would need some of that to operate amongst the Gunners and therefore a little zest would be permitted. It didn’t pass Shaun that he was perhaps showing a little favoritism for the duplicate of his recently-expired relative, and it certainly didn’t help that Jack had resembled his father so very closely. Preferentialism would perhaps be inevitable, but he needed to be cautious. He was still a new director, and Shaun needed to keep all of his scientists in check and their faith in his opinions strong.

“All generation-three synths such as yourself are created based off of my DNA,” he explained. “I gained the alias ‘Father’ as a result of this and it’s stuck with me through the years. All synths are linked to me as family, through science.”

“Damn… So you’re really my dad, then?”

“Something like that.”

“Do I have to call you Father? It might be kind of weird. We don’t even look too far apart in age.”

“It is not expected of you. You may refer to me as Director.”

“Director. Okay. I guess I can handle that. So do all synths look like us, _Director_?”

“No. They begin with my genes as a baseline but they are heavily modified to create diversity. Most synths do not resemble me in the least.”

“Oh. So…they’re sort of my siblings?”

“Yes. In a way, they are your siblings.”

“Hm… All right. So…how many of us are there? Synths, I mean?”

“Many.”

76 bit his lip and tapped his long fingers on the tinny table. “This is…a lot.”

“Yes, I imagine that it is,” Shaun grinned and stood. “I believe you shall settle in and do just fine, 76. I am going to assign you some quarters as you adjust to your life here. You shall likely end up residing with the Coursers, but until your residence is complete, I would prefer to keep a close eye on you, myself, if at all possible.”

“Uh…sure. Understood.”

“I am certain I shall see you again within the next day or so. But if you excuse me, I must return to my work.”

“Right. It was good to meet you, Director. I’ll do my best not to disappoint you and to meet Institute standards.”

Shaun chuckled very softly. “You are quite the unit, SS-76. I believe you shall succeed here at the Institute.” He tucked his chair in and walked out, meeting the two doctors in the hallway.

“Well?” Dr. O’Deorain smiled. “He is exquisite, isn’t he?”

“He is an impressive unit,” Shaun nodded. “You both did an excellent job. He should easily pass as the legitimate Jack Morrison. I shall make sure SRB trains him and picks up any supplementary education that SS-76 may require. In the meantime, I am going to have him set up in quarters close to my own so that I may personally monitor his progress.” He walked past them before Dr. Ziegler could comment on his final note, unwilling to humor any arguments on the matter otherwise. “Have a pleasant afternoon, Doctors.”

 

Seeing the whole of the Institute for the first time was nearly overwhelming. The Institute was almost impossibly high-tech, compared to literally anything else he’d seen in his life. Well, that _Jack_ had seen. He kept having to remind himself that he was a synth and that Jack now was little more than a past-life of regrets and a pile of ash Moira dumped in her trash can.

Jack Morrison would receive no grave, but if he had, 76 would have fucking spit on it.

76 had applied for a jacket with his number embroidered on it somewhere for a smoother mental acclimation to his new identity. The director, “Father” had actually signed off on it, agreeing that it wouldn’t be conspicuous to anyone above ground. So there was that, at least.

Father wasn’t so bad, really. A bit stiff but 76 was fine with stiff. He was easy to talk to. Still mildly friendly but he took his job damn seriously, which the synth could appreciate. And when Father had come to interview him as the final check on the box of his release form, they’d gotten along just fine. 76 figured he must have said all the right things and played the part of dutiful robot soldier well enough, because immediately afterwards he’d been given the greenlight to walk out of the lab.

Being a synth had turned out to be far more liberating than what 76 imagined others of his kind considered it to be—waking up in laboratories, told they were a tool and nothing more and to cooperate or be destroyed. The Institute was a real piece of work but he considered it a blessing in disguise, at least for himself.

He’d had plenty of time alone between the tests to be both retro and introspective, and he’d taken the opportunity to really examine who he was, both as Jack Morrison and SS-76, and had begun to locate the tells between them. The main one was how poorly Jack Morrison had suffered a good deal from ‘moral conflicts of interest,’ something 76 found himself gawking at. It was baffling, why Jack had struggled against himself so much. Being bisexual wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, but Jack had certainly convinced himself it was something to bury as deep under the rug as he could stuff it.

In quite the contrast, 76’s ease of acceptance was, well, it was easy. But not the same. He was similar enough to Jack that he inherited many of his interests but 76 had no interest in women. They were pretty creatures to be respected and held in regard, but when female scientists passed by, 76 didn’t find himself looking at them with anything other than general curiosity or indifference. He’d become used enough to the idea of Moira as his doctor that he’d even opened up to her about it, and she’d told him it wasn’t too uncommon for duplicates to have different preferences. She’d suggested they “do some research on it.” He wasn’t sure what that implied but he was already regretting bringing it up.

It was a relief to know that there were inconsistencies separating him from Jack. He’d even discovered that he had more of a sweet tooth, eagerly going through the snack cakes Dr. Ziegler had brought him. Moira had shot him a shrewd grin and it made him a bit nervous but nothing came of it. At least not yet. The woman was fucking terrifying.

The differences were slim but they were still differences, and the synth grabbed hold of each and every reassuring splinter and constructed a fence between himself and everything that was exclusively Jack Morrison. He needed to solidify his own identity amongst the floating wreckage left in his head. He wanted to be SS-76, synth and Institute soldier, not Jack Morrison, trashy Gunner and general failure of a human being. Maybe he could even fix some of Jack’s mistakes. They weren’t necessarily his sins to carry, but 76 felt at least a little responsible for them, in an inert sort of way. He could at least try to be a better man than Jack Morrison had been.

Maybe this time around, he’d make all the right choices, but he knew he was too much Jack to fall for that. Still, he’d give it his best shot.

It was four in the morning when he woke up to begin the familiar habit of shaving, showering, and getting ready to face the day. By Father’s mere grace 76 had more freedom than most synths, allowed to have temporary quarters and a space to call his own while one was prepared where the Coursers slept, but 76 was still required to get ready and have food before training began. Father wanted him to prove what he was actually capable of, something more tangible than simple lab tests, and 76 was eager to show his value in the field. After all, the last thing he needed was to be labeled inadequate and either outright destroyed, or worse, for Father to decide a copy of Morrison was entirely unnecessary and for him to just get stuffed into the underground tunnels digging for the rest of his life. Making the prospect even less favorable was the knowledge that synths didn’t physically age and therefore didn’t have as clear-cut an expiration date as humans did. He could theoretically be shoveling dirt for a literal eternity, and 76 would rather kill himself, something he was sure many synths had done before him.

76 had already met a good two dozen of his peers by now and they were either incredibly disturbing with false smiles or they looked miserable or just plain terrified. Rightfully so—any wrong move and they were good as dead. The Institute regularly sent trained synthetic soldiers known as Coursers to check up on their slave labor, and Coursers meant business. Any sign of ‘error’ or ‘malfunctions’ and a synth was often wiped or killed and dumped only God knew where.

Once cleaned up and dressed in his ridiculous and uncomfortable grey and red ‘synth obvious’ getup, 76 stepped out into the white hallway. He fixed the collar of his jumper and nodded as a black-coated Courser strode by. Once certain he was allowed to move, making sure not to gather too much attention to himself from passing personnel, he descended a winding stairwell and headed into the cafeteria to grab breakfast.

The nerds had coffee. Real coffee. Not rotting trash in tin-cans, either. REAL. COFFEE. And cream. It was powdered cream, sure, but it was more than good enough.

He sat at a table snugging the back wall and sipped the brew while quietly eating a meager but nutritious breakfast: a bran muffin, applesauce, and some sort of dark reddish stuff he was praying was actual meat but figured was a vegetarian concoction. All things considered, at least the food was comparatively better than up-top. 76 would take questionable meat-like sausage links over iguana on a stick any day. Still, he missed Gabe’s spices.

“Unit SS-76.”

76 glanced up from his meal, having been lost in thoughts about how to patch things up with Gabe, and was met with the even planes of a dark-skinned Courser’s face. “Uh… Yes? I mean, affirmative? Err… Shit… What is it exactly that you guys want me to say, again? Sorry, I’m new.”

The Courser arched a thin brow and tilted his head in some consideration before seeming to settle on not punching him in the jaw for daring to be a bit feisty. “Your behavior is odd, but understandably as much, given the circumstances of your creation by Dr. O’Deorain. She informed me that you’re more likely to show signs of ‘sass,’ however, I warn you that such personality traits, though required for your future social functions and operations above ground, will not be tolerated at headquarters or when reporting in to Institute personnel or Coursers. You will comply swiftly, honestly, and efficiently when addressed. Additionally, outside of labor-driven interface, social exchange between synths is highly discouraged. Do you understand, unit SS-76?”

It was 76’s turn to arch a brow but he quickly reigned it in. “Understood.”

“I am designated unit X6-88. I shall be your guide to the Synth Retention Bureau for testing, interrogation, and training.”

“I’ve already been tested by Dr. O’Deorain, interrogated by Father himself, and I’ve inherited more than two decades of field experience from the soldier I was based off of. How many more hoops do I have to jump through before you people give me a real job?”

“That is up to Dr. Zimmer and Father to decide. I am simply here to escort you. You are due at the SRB in ten minutes, SS-76.”

“Understood. I’ll make sure to arrive on time.”

X6-88 lingered, staring coldly down at him from behind his sunglasses and making 76 fidget in his seat. He wasn’t going to be able to finish his breakfast in peace with this guy scowling at him the entire time.

76 sighed and stood, throwing his trash out before handing his empty coffee mug to the Gen-2 that worked behind the counter. “All right. Let’s go.”

X6-88 promptly turned and began to soldier off towards the SRB, 76 tailing close behind. He didn’t miss the way 88 made point to look in the direction of every single red-collared synth they passed on the way, or how the synths either scurried off out of sight or made certain to keep their eyes turned from them.

Coursers really did have the place on lockdown but 76 wondered what exactly would happen if one of these ‘super-synths’ ever turned on their creators. He’d make a good bet that it probably wasn’t pretty, but he was sure it had to have happened in the past. Coursers were still synths and, with the exception of being printed in a lab, they seemed pretty much just like a human. So that meant these Coursers had started as normal people, at least to some degree.

How did The Institute choose a Courser? Or were they all created with the intention of being one? 76 figured he was about to find out as 88 opened the door for him to let him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jack is literal trash.  
> X6-88 will spend every waking hour annoying the living hell out of 76. He LIKELY wasn't created yet, but...throw me a bone. I sort of wanted to include him in this.  
> 76 is a bit more bright-eyed than Jack was because he lacks the damage Jack suffered from the SEP serum, resulting in a more naive and friendly incarnation of Jack that closely resembles what he was like once upon a time.  
> 76’s perspective continues into the next chapter. I may add a shorter chapter before that, showing 76 interacting more with other synths and some Coursers, but I haven’t decided yet. I could have added it here but the chapter would have ended up twice as long and it was already getting a bit long to begin with.
> 
> I wrote this chapter long before ‘Fallout 76’ was teased, so it turned out perfect since I literally had to change nothing about Jack's ancestor coming from a control vault.


	8. Code Name: Goldfox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SS-76 continues to adjust to his new life and learns some startling information from Moira.  
> This chapter ran a little longer than expected.

“X6-88 reporting for duty with unit SS-76, sir.”

“Ahh, here we are. Bright and early, just how I like it.”

The Synth Retention Bureau, better known as the SRB, looked pretty much the same as everywhere else in the Institute, made up of all stark whites and glass and aluminum, but the handful of black-clad Coursers stuffing up the place made it feel smaller somehow.

Dr. Zimmer himself, or at least who 76 presumed was Dr. Zimmer, wasn’t terribly impressive or intimidating. He was probably in his late forties or early fifties and was of average height, his forehead coming to 76’s nose bridge, with thinning brown hair and wrinkled brown eyes and an average build. Just…average. Maybe a bit stern-looking but 76 figured the guy probably had to be, surrounded by a bunch of highly-trained killers all day that may or may not secretly want to smother you with a pillow. He reminded 76 of an old colonel he’d met at the Capital—that _Jack_ had met. God damn it.

Dr. Zimmer approached and circled around him as 76 made an effort to remain still, already accustomed to being observed and poked and prodded, even if he didn’t much like it. The doctor surprised him by pumping a fist against his back, making the synth’s muscles tense and jerk as he reigned in the deeply-ingrained impulse to flip the doctor onto his back and shatter his arm. Several scenarios of the encounter and how it would play out ran like calculations through his head, and 76 may have assumed it was because he was a literal robot if it weren’t for the fact that Jack already thought like that.

The scientist hummed at 76’s silent show of restraint. “Nice reflexes. You almost struck at me, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” 76 admitted stiffly. “Jack was well-trained in hand-to-hand combat, but he had excellent self-control and so do I.”

“Good, good.” The man moved around to 76’s front and continued his inspection, moving his light brown eyes across the blonde’s long body.

76 shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, masking his awkwardness by moving his weight from one leg to the other, but he could almost feel X6-88’s eyes honing in on him as he did it. Caught. Shit.

“Well, I don’t see what the big fuss is all about,” Dr. Zimmer graciously cut through the tension. “Aside from looking like a god damn princess, you appear to be pretty standard fair for a Courser unit. Not excessively muscular or tall or anything like what I’d expect from a so-called ‘super-soldier’. You look more like you were built for digging than killing,” he grunted.

“I assure you that I’m more than capable of killing any target you assign me to, sir.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, SS-76.”

“Right. Of course, sir.”

“Dr. O’Deorain informed me that Mr. Morrison was from her SEP experiments.”

“Yes sir. She replicated me with his skills and enhanced physical statistics.” 76 was still learning all of their favorite little buzzwords. Brownnosing to superiors was going to be important in a place like this. Luckily, Jack had excelled at it.

“Excellent,” Dr. Zimmer smirked, a glint sparking in his eyes as he folded his hands behind his back. “I look forward to seeing these enhancements in action myself. How much can you deadlift, SS-76?”

“Post-SEP, Jack could deadlift up to about fifteen-hundred pounds. Dr. O’Deorain claims that I’m his equal or improved, so it should be something along those lines. We performed only baseline physical tests but it seems safe to presume that I’m capable of at least that.”

“That’s impossible,” Dr. Zimmer spat. “You’re fit, sure, but certainly not enough to accommodate such a performance.”

“I could prove it,” 76 offered. “I’m certain that Dr. O’Deorain would be more than happy to accommodate any tests.” He risked a side-glance at X6-88, who neither seemed surprised nor impressed by the claims. It was beginning to look like the guy had no expression besides _I’m a computer-man, beep-boop_. “What about you, X6-88? How much can you deadlift?”

“I am capable of lifting five-hundred and ten pounds.”

Not bad.

“I’ll contact Dr. Ziegler and O’Deorain about this matter for the _actual_ data,” Dr. Zimmer frowned and 76 just shrugged a little bit, unable to quell the natural mannerism, which seemed to immediately irritate the scientist. “Morrison was a Gunner, correct? A soldier? Trained on the topside and all of that?”

“Yes sir. Jack Morrison was a Gunner Major and was a travelling mercenary for a time before that. He grew up on a farm and was primarily self-trained in combat before he received formal military training from the Gunners during the revived SEP that Dr. O’Deorain operated prior to being hired by the Institute.”

“A farmer?” Dr. Zimmer hollered. “Moira sent me a FARMER?”

76 pretended not to be irritated at the doctor’s patronizing. “Yes sir. Jack was a farm-boy up until his late teens.”

“Great! That’s just great! How many years of field experience did Morrison actually have? Can’t be many. You don’t look a day older than twenty-five.”

“Jack joined the Gunners at twenty-three years old and had thirteen years with the Gunners under his belt when he died at thirty-six, sir. The SEP serum halted my— _his_ —age.” Nice save, Jack. 76. Shit. “He was a mercenary for five years before that time. He spent half his life in real combat.”

The scientist snorted noisily, hands going through his thinning hair and to his hips, but Zimmer neglected to correct the verbal faux-pas. “Eighteen years, huh?”

“Yes sir. Eighteen years of hard warfare against anything and everything the Commonwealth and Capital had to throw at him.”

“Hm. Well, I’ve never worked with a Gunner before,” Zimmer grumbled, “so I’m eager to see what you can do against my Coursers. They’ve received nothing but the best combat training and physical enhancements we have to offer, and one should be more than enough to put you in your place and show Moira she isn’t the only one with super-soldiers around here.”

“Of course, sir. Which unit is your strongest?”

“Excuse me?”

“Which Courser would put up the best fight?”

Dr. Zimmer sputtered, indignant and obviously unaccustomed to a synth talking to him so directly. “It’s my job to test your performance!” he snarled and jabbed a finger into the firm muscle of 76’s chest. “I’M the one that asks the questions and makes the calls around here, not you! I’m aware you’re a psychological copy, the first one since that absolute _fiasco_ with the Valentine unit,” 76 stored that tidbit away for later, “but I’m not about to let a computer talk to me like that!”

“Yes. Of course. My apologies, Dr. Zimmer.”

“SIR.”

“Sir, yes sir,” 76 nodded, keeping his blue eyes to the wall, hands behind him and legs spread like a soldier at attention. “I was simply attempting to demonstrate my value. My apologies.”

“Dr. Zimmer,” X6-88 evenly interjected, “Dr. O’Deorain explicitly cited that this unit would perform more assertively than most synths, due to the nature of his design. SS-76 is behaving well under his projected parameters, sir.”

“I know that!” the scientist hissed and glowered at 76. “Fine. Very well. Let’s put you up against S3-47 and see what you can do.” Dr. Zimmer snapped his fingers. The synths mechanically stepped back as a large Courser approached. He was tall and burly, made up of solid muscle, with ashy-blue eyes, a shaved head, and olive skin. Zimmer smirked darkly and jerked his head towards the very still and silent 76. “Armitage, show him what you’ve got. Let’s teach Dr. O’Deorain’s newest lab-rabbit how we play around here at the Retention Bureau.”

S3-47 cracked his thick knuckles at his sides. “Yes, Dr. Zimmer.”

76 allowed the larger synth to approach and size him up, already aware that he didn’t watch his six properly by the time S3-47 made a move to throw a punch. He was quick for his size and his form was good; they trained their Coursers in hand-to-hand combat decently enough, but Jack wouldn’t have been impressed and neither was his duplicate. 76 easily swerved and was in S3-47’s side before the Courser had time to react, cleanly jabbing him and feeling three synthetic ribs snap under the restrained pressure. Jack could and had punched a literal hole through a man’s chest in the past and figured he probably could do a good bit worse if he tried.

Dr. Zimmer watched with an arched brow as S3-47 recovered and leapt backwards, rolling his shoulders and preparing himself before jumping back in to attack the blonde a second time. But 76 was already in a defensive stance and easily blocked the series of flurried but admittedly powerful attempts, getting in a few hits before taking an opening to thrust his wrist into Armitage’s face, sending him fumbling backwards as blood spilled from his broken nose. 76 snatched the stunned synth’s arm, yanking it up and back to dislodge it before he kicked the larger synth into the crowd. The Coursers spread like the Red Sea and S3-47 crumpled against the wall.

“Not bad, SS-76. I suppose you’d like me to say that I’m impressed,” Dr. Zimmer snorted.

“No sir.” 76 stood upright once sure S3-47 wasn’t going to get back up. “I don’t.”

“Good,” Dr. Zimmer grinned. “Very good. X6-88, take Armitage to the Courser Med-Bay and get him repaired. He’s going to require some updated software after this shitshow.”

“Yes sir. Of course,” the dark-skinned synth nodded obediently and helped his brother on his feet before shuffling him off. 76 had left him with three broken ribs, a shattered nose and a dislocated right arm. But it could have been far worse.

“You’re not so bad at combat for the clone of a middle-aged over-world farmer,” Zimmer admitted. “Good posture. Fast reflexes. More defensive than offensive, which is a plus. People are always wanting to punch things but never fail to forget defense is just as important. But don’t think for even a second that I’m letting you just walk out of here.”

“Of course not, sir. I’m ready and willing to do whatever you ask.”

“Good, because we’re going to be here a while.”

“Yes sir.”

Zimmer grinned, pleased with the curt and dry response, and nodded once. “You’re going to make a fine Courser, SS-76. Keep this up and you may even earn a nickname.”

“Nickname?”

“My personal pick of each run all get them,” Dr. Zimmer sniggered. “Armitage has been under my charge for a long time now and though he isn’t yet perfect in combat he’s both fierce and loyal. Should I ever go to the surface, Armitage is generally my preferred bodyguard.”

“He needs to work on watching his six,” 76 commented. “He leaves himself too open if you can get behind him.”

“Not enough defense,” Zimmer agreed. “I know. Yes. Yes, I think you’ll do just fine here, SS-76.”

“Thank you, sir. I aim to impress.”

 

Eight solid hours of beating up the best the Institute had to offer later and 76 was ready to stop breaking jaws for a while and maybe get something to eat. He’d proven he was capable of handling their top Coursers, which put Dr. Zimmer in a foul mood but he seemed at least satisfied at 76’s performance.

He’d been ordered to eat and clean himself and get sufficient rest before reporting in at 0600 back at the SRB for weapons testing in the morning.

After taking a much-needed bathroom break (he seriously wished they’d at least give them that much), 76 made his way towards the cafeteria, eager to grab his food and hide away in his quarters before being disappointed when seeing Dr. O’Deorain chatting with Dr. Ziegler. Before he could turn and manage an escape, Moira had spotted him and waved a hand in the air.

“SS-76!” she called. “Come here!”

Like he could say no.

76 sighed inwardly, managing to keep his expression calm the way they liked it, and turned to nod compliantly. He grabbed some dinner—what looked like actual mashed potatoes and some sort of unpleasantly-greyish meat-substitute—and sat beside the more pleasant Dr. Ziegler. “Good evening, Doctors.”

“How was the SRB? Did you knock some teeth out of Zimmer’s stupid lackeys?” Moira purred, her dual-colored eyes sparkling cattishly.

“I beat a few Coursers around, yeah.”

“Good!”

“Has he nicknamed you yet?” Dr. Ziegler giggled.

“Uh…no. Not yet. But he kept calling me _rabbit_ and _pretty-boy_ and _soldier_ and stuff. He’s…sort of…weird.” Incredibly, uncomfortably weird.

76 was really hoping if he did get a nickname that it wasn’t “Rabbit”… “Pretty-Boy” struck him as something Zimmer wouldn’t actually use but with how synths were seen as objects rather than people, it might not be completely inappropriate around here, especially for how often Zimmer made a point to mention how attractive he was. Gross. “Soldier” would be acceptable, though, and certainly appropriate.

 “RABBIT?” Moira scoffed and hit a wiry fist against the table. “That snarky old man’s looking to get me to kick his arse myself if he doesn’t shape-up!”

“Dr. O’Deorain and Dr. Zimmer don’t get along very well,” Dr. Ziegler explained when 76 glanced at her for help. “Dr. O’Deorain utilizes rabbits often for her genetic experiments. He was making a jab at her work. He doesn’t believe that she’s qualified to be working on synths.”

“That fool wouldn’t know the difference between a rabbit and a dog!” Moira snorted. “Synths are still built with genes, and genes are my damn specialty!”

76 arched a brow. “I thought rabbits were extinct?”

“They were,” Moira huffed. “I was able to create a stable genome from some old samples. I released them in to the wilderness on an island up north and they’ve since then expanded and done exceptionally well. Rabbit is some of the only real meaty we serve here. Luckily for us, it’s good meat. I’m actually pushing for more synthetic animal tests to be performed. Maybe gorillas next. I’d also exploring the possibility of messing with the intelligence of animals. It should be interesting, if green-lit.”

“Oh.” At this point, he really shouldn’t be surprised at anything Moira did. She could probably talk nonstop for hours about projects like these. He’d be annoyed if it weren’t sort of a relief; most scientists wouldn’t talk to him at all. Moira at least made conversation and seemed to value his opinions to some degree—probably since Jack wasn’t stupid. “Right. Well, he wants to test my physical strength and stamina to their limits soon,” 76 nodded, “and tomorrow I get to show off my shooting. Jack specialized in rifles so this should be routine. He’s obviously never used an Institute gun before but it can’t be so different from a normal one. I’m fairly certain that Dr. Zimmer will be pleased with my performance at the range.”

“You’ll blow those stupid toasters out of the water,” the red-head cackled. “Perhaps once that old man’s seen what a wonder you are, he’ll have some damn respect for the legitimacy of my work. I’ve been trying to worm my way in to Courser program since I arrived here. It’s absolutely _inexcusable_ for Father to ignore my experience in the field of genetic design like this! So, with any luck, you’ll prove these unimaginative fools erroneous and do us both a favor.”

“Uh… Sure. I’ll do my best.”

“I’m already in the process of designing you customized tools and gear,” Moira continued and took a small bite of her mashed potatoes.

“Gear?”

“You’ll see,” she smirked. “I’m certain you’ll appreciate it. It’s all right down Jack’s admittedly-narrow alley of interests. Supporting you myself is simple fair since I’m already familiar with Mr. Morrison’s capabilities and preferences, which is the primary reason that I was able to get this assignment.”

“Uh. Right. I…look forward to testing it out, I guess.”

“No reason to be so nervous, SS-76,” the red-head cackled and sipped her milk substitute. “I’m not going to harm my own project.”

“Right.” He really didn’t believe that for even a second. Not. One. Second. 76 poked at the grey meat-ish stuff and cut it with his fork, finding it to be a bit spongey. “The director mentioned that you do a lot of stuff around here. What are you other projects? If I can ask, I mean.”

“You’re always welcome to inquire regarding my research, SS-76,” Moira purred. “Yes, I perform many studies across multiple branches of science. Though I primarily study evolution and genetic mutation and manipulation, I occasionally dabble in things such as alternative power, weapons and technology upgrades, synth design, medical research and development, and nanite technology. “

“That is a lot,” 76 nodded. “Nanites… That’s what you put in Reyes, right?”

“Yes. I’d stumbled across the technology roughly around the same period. Dr. Ziegler’s ancestor actually is responsible for their initial design, and I supplement Dr. Ziegler’s studies on them here for medical and mutation research. It is one of the primary reasons we work together so closely.”

“So…Gabe was a...test?”

“He was an experiment, yes. The nanites I found were primarily utilized to speed the body’s natural healing process and to treat disease and prevent genetic mutations or perversions through radiation damage. I was able to manipulate them to augment the similar effects of the SEP serum, but was limited in my sample and couldn’t create more with the technology on-hand above ground. I can here, however, and have been performing many more nanite-based medical experiments with Dr. Ziegler here. Luckily, I was able to generate decent ones for my study on Gabriel, so his old-generation ones don’t really need much upkeep or replacement, but I’m currently working on cleaning him out of them and upgrading him, anyways. These new nanites are very promising. Dr. Ziegler never fails to impress.”

76 set his jaw. “You’re doing _more_ experiments on him?”

Moira glanced slyly over the rim of her cup. “Yes,” she purred. The geneticist set her drink down and ran a thin finger over the golden rim at the top of the glass. “We kept a very close eye on both Mr. Morrison and Mr. Reyes to study the short and long-term effects of both the SEP serum and second-generation nanites. Jack was harder to track after he left Blackwatch, and has of course since expired, but Mr. Reyes is still well under our monitoring and is subject to my ongoing research regarding his serum-enhanced physiology and the nanites, amongst other things. Reyes is actually the star subject of _Project: Reaper_.”

“Project Reaper?”

“A sort of…” Moira rolled her wrist, “study on the nature of death. It’s my top project and one I’m eager to follow-through on, if all goes according to plan. Gabriel has been an excellent subject thus far. Observing him has been highly educational.”

“What is this project really about, exactly?” 76 made an effort to keep his voice as clear of resentment as possible. Getting angry wasn’t going to save Gabriel from whatever she was doing to him. 76 needed to bide his time, learn what was going on, and figure out if he could somehow subvert it without getting caught. It wasn’t going to be easy; Moira wasn’t stupid. “I mean, it’s not like I can tell anyone that matters, right?”

Moira studied him with her strange eyes before grinning. “I’m going to bring a dead man back to life.”

“Back to life?” His struggles to understand the implication of her statement seemed to amuse her, because she chuckled at his furrowed brows. “How the hell are you going to do that?”

“The reasons bringing a human back to life are varied and complicated,” she began, “but at the end of the day it all comes down to the limitations of the human brain. Once it turns off, there is a very brief window of time one has to resuscitate it before the damage done to it leaves it unrepairable. You could bring the body back with the right tools, but not the _person_. They’d be too damaged to operate with any normalcy or just be a complete vegetable.”

“Dr. O’Deorain believes that if the brain were to be successfully replaced with nanites that the person could theoretically die and be brought back to life no matter how long has passed,” Dr. Ziegler continued. “In theory, if you gradually replace the host’s cells with the nanites over a long enough period of time, they’d be able to live for, well…practically forever. It would be the ultimate biomechanical achievement.”

“Immortality? Seriously?” Wasn’t the whole ‘the mad scientist chases immortality’ thing a trope?

“People would have to appreciate my genius then, now wouldn’t they?” Moira purred.

“But…how does that even work? I thought the nanites just made him heal faster?”

“The second-generation nanites I introduced into Gabriel’s bloodstream were designed for that purpose, yes, and to help prevent disease, infection, and radiation damage,” Moira nodded. “But these third-generation versions are meant to replace damaged cells and replicate the originals, sort of like synthetic stem cells.”

“You’re making him a synth?”

“In a manner of speaking. Any replaced cells would not age, similar to your own. It would also bring complete stability to his cellular structure, and make him immune to practically all disease or illness. But the ultimate point of the study is whether or not his mind can be replaced. Memories and feelings, they’re all chemical and attached to cells, the same as any other. If the nanites replace his brain matter, in theory, he would return to life with all of his memories intact, should he expire.”

It occurred to 76 that in order to test this theory they’d have to kill Gabriel. Good freaking luck with that.

“But if they only replace damaged cells, how do you intend on replacing the brain?”

“You are so damn snoopy for a synth. I love it.” She bunkered forward on the table, grinning widely with enthusiasm for her work. “I have a few special nanites designed just for that purpose. They’ve been gradually replacing his grey matter for the last two years. I’m still studying the side-effects.”

“Right. Of course.” He wanted to ask what sorts of side-effects replacing someone’s entire brain might be but opted to save that conversation for another day. Maybe the strange behaviors Jack had heard rumors about was related to these experiments. “But how do you do that? Get samples and inject him more of these nanites?” 76 wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to the question but he had to ask it. He had to know.

Moira tilted her sharp head and grinned at him, looking self-righteous as ever. Someday he’d wipe that smug expression off her face with his fucking fists. “We have an agent on-site,” she admitted. “A Courser, actually—TP-97. It regularly manages to get me biological samples and has been introducing new batches of the enhanced nanites in to Gabriel. It’s quite sly, for a Courser. I actually quite like it, personally.”

76 clenched his teeth and turned his blue eyes towards his food. “I see.”

Her eyelids lowered. “You’re wondering who it is, aren’t you?”

He took a quiet bite of the grey meat. It had a weird texture and was only barely palatable. Too salty. Still better than radroach, though.

”Tell me, SS-76,” Moira pressed, pointy chin resting in a nest of her long fingers. “Tell me who you think it is.”

76 sipped his water and pretended that he wasn’t feeling sick. “Thomas Stultz.”

Moira’s red and blue eyes sparkled. “And why would you say that?”

“It would have to be someone there for a long time. Someone that Gabriel and Jack both trusted enough to be physically close. Jesse would be an option, but he just got there. It pretty much has to be Tom.”

She hummed and leaned back before laughing and looking at the suddenly very nervous Dr. Ziegler, motioning at 76 with her long hand before slapping it on the table. “I adore this unit.”

Ziegler watched him very carefully, looking for signs of distress, though 76 swallowed them down with the questionable meat-substitute. “TP-97…Tom…is very kind,” she said quietly. “He worked with me for a short time before he left. I liked him very much.”

“Jack liked him, too.” 76 took another large bite, eager to finish his meal and make an excuse to flee to his quarters. “But I guess Tom was never real. It was all an act. At least it was eventually.”

Dr. Ziegler opened her pretty lips to say something but seemed to choose it unwise because she immediately looked down towards her lap and went silent.

“TP-97 is malfunctioning,” Moira grunted, her amusement drained.

76 looked up. “Malfunctioning? How so?”

“The unit is faulty. It has begun to identify too closely to the legitimate Thomas Stultz and is showing signs of sympathizing with the subject. We may have to pull it from the field and dispose of the unit altogether,” she sighed, loud and long. “Which would be a pain for me, as he’s my go-to set of hands in the field for this project. It’s been suggested that we approach this ‘Jesse McCree’ boy and offer him reimbursement, but based on everything I’ve seen and heard about him, he’d never cooperate.”

“He wouldn’t,” 76 affirmed.

“We’d have to replace him,” she hummed. “But he’s always with Gabriel, so he’s practically impossible to get close enough to manage it.”

“Yes, well, Gabe’s always been pretty protective of his soldiers.”

“I’m working on a fallback plan. But you don’t worry about that.” Moira reached her long arm across the table to pinch his cheek. “You just keep impressing Dr. Zimmer and Father for me and everything will fall neatly in to place.”

He swat at her hand and stood. “I should get cleaned up and retire early. I have a long day tomorrow. Have a good evening, Doctors.” 76 offered a two-finger salute before dumping his trash and heading towards his quarters as briskly as he could without looking suspicious.

Once safely inside, he locked the door and dashed towards the glass tube they called a shower, hastily undressing and climbing inside. 76 leaned his forehead against the glass and let the overwhelmingly-satisfying sensation of hot water rush over his day-old synthetic skin as he tried to hold back a breakdown.

Thomas Stultz, Jack’s closest friend besides Gabriel, was a synth. A fake. A lie. A mole. Synths didn’t age, so he had to have been replaced around his first or second year of being at Blackwatch. They’d killed an eighteen-year-old kid just to study Gabriel. And it was Jack’s fault.

Jack had allowed Tom to stay, even though he’d initially said no and had continued to say no for the next several months. Tom had aggressively chased after a position, demanding that he deserved a chance to prove himself and that he wanted to be more than just an ex-slave.

“ _I need this and you need me_ ,” the words echoed in 76’s copied memories. “ _Please, Jack! Just give me a chance. One chance, that’s all I’m asking for. One. I won’t let you down._ ”

And he had. Jack had given him that chance. And Tom was dead because of it.

If Jack had just said no, Thomas Stultz would still be alive. Instead, he was murdered by the Institute and replaced with a copy that had probably spent the last decade manipulating Jack while also experimenting on Gabriel as Moira’s synth surrogate.

Tom was dead and Gabe was a lab-rat because of Jack.

Because of _him_.

76 wanted to throw up.

 

He barely slept, but luckily for him he didn’t need much sleep.

76 still hadn’t had a dream yet and he hadn’t decided if it bothered him or not.

He reported to the SRB at 0545, belly full of something resembling eggs with vegetables and a meat substitute that reminded him of Stingwing.

“SS-76. You’re early,” Dr. Zimmer observed groggily as he went over some messages at the terminal on the wall.

X6-88 was already there, as was the already-recovered behemoth, ‘Armitage’. 76 wondered why X6-88 hadn’t received his own stupid alias yet. The guy was a total weirdo but he was highly-devoted and took his job more than just a little too seriously. He must have done something to piss the doctor off at some point to be so ignored.

“I’m simply eager to get to work, sir,” 76 saluted, spreading his legs and promptly putting both hands behind his straight-laced back. 

“What a good little soldier you’re turning out to be,” Zimmer snorted. “Way better than most the standard synths I get for training. Perhaps Dr. O’Deorain isn’t as rash as I presumed, picking up a pretty-boy like Jack Morrison for duplication. I guess we’ll see what you can do and go from there.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”

Zimmer finished typing and closed the terminal, locking it and giving his newest recruit a considerate once-over, nodding with soundless approval at the synth’s overall look of tidiness. Every button and zipper was in place; every strand of golden hair appropriately trimmed and combed. 76 was neat and organized practically to the point of obsession, an inherited trait that would certainly serve him well at the Institute. “I presume you’re proficient with firearms.”

“Yes sir,” 76 affirmed with a single, professional nod. “Jack was well-trained in the usage of all firearms accessible to him. His personal preference was rifles.”

“He ever used a laser rifle before?”

“Yes sir. Plasma rifles, as well.”

“Excellent. Let’s test your perception and then we’ll move on to a reflex test.”

“Yes sir.”

Dr. Zimmer led him out of the SRB lab, the three Coursers following dutifully. He opened a locked door in a back hall not too far from the SRB, striding down a stairwell that led in to a large, high-ceilinged room filled with training equipment, weapons, and all sorts of crap that pretty closely resembled just a more advanced version of the shit the Gunners used to train recruits at their larger outposts. “This is where we perform basic and routine training for Coursers. We call it the Depot.”

“It’s very impressive.”

“Of course it is. X6-88 can assist you with getting suited up while Armitage prepares your training areas.”

“Yes sir.”

X6-88 marched dutifully towards a door. The synth scanned his palm on a pad on the wall, causing a hidden door to hiss open. 76 slid inside after X6-88 and the door shut automatically behind them. The exposed hallway was long and lined with white, boxy rifles and pistols that 76 would bet his left arm were made of plastics. He certainly couldn’t very easily accuse the Institute of not being well-armed. The end of the hall opened in to a larger room with more, larger weapons like Gauss Rifles in the center and black Courser jackets and simple white synth garb lining the walls.

“You would conventionally be designated a black Courser uniform. However, Father has allocated you with a tailored uniform.” X6-88 motioned at a white box on a shelf against the wall. An aluminum plaque on the front read:

> CONTAINS: x1 Courser Uniform, Special Ops
> 
> PROJECT: Reaper, Dr. Moira O’Deorain
> 
> ALLOCATION: G3-unit #SS-76
> 
> NOTE(S): “Unit SS-76 is permitted to wear this uniform while on Institute premises. Direct all project comments, concerns and/or inquiries to me or Dr. O’Deorain.” - Director Shaun S. Washington (Father).

76 approached the box and opened its metal locks to reveal a leather jacket, a thin breastplate, a high-collared black undershirt, a pair of dark grey cargo pants, and a set of gloves and boots. He rubbed the hem of the shirt fabric between his fingers and glanced at his silent peer. “Ballistic weave?” he guessed.

“Affirmative.”

76 glanced back at the new clothing, pulling out the jacket and turning it in his hands, finding ‘76’ in bright red and yellow on the back. What the hell did he do to get such special treatment? “This seems rather…unconventional.”

“It is rare for a unit to receive custom gear, though not unprecedented,” X6-88 confirmed without even a hint of chagrin in his smooth voice. “You would be expected to wear the traditional Courser uniform, however Father has made an exception due to the requirements of your future above ground operations.”

“Ah. I see. So…” 76 trailed a bit awkwardly. “Are you going to watch me get changed?”

The Courser lilted his head ever so slightly. “Yes.”

“Right.” 76 turned his back to begin changing. X6-88 didn’t even look away. 76 could feel the synth’s dark eyes boring black holes in to his back as he stripped and redressed. The outfit was comfortable, precisely customized to his dimensions, and felt like it might even come with thermal coating. The Commonwealth could get pretty damn cold and 76 was certain he’d appreciate it.

Once the gloves were on, he rolled his shoulders and turned. “All right. Ready to go.”

“You may leave your original apparel here,” X6-88 instructed before turning to stride out. “I shall have it brought to your quarters.”

He’d say thanks but it would probably be lost on X6-88.

76 jogged a couple of steps to catch up and followed his silent peer back into the primary training facility, where Dr. Zimmer was patiently waiting.

The doctor gave 76 a long graze of his dark eyes. “My god… Your resemblance to the backup is absolutely uncanny…”

What the hell did he mean by ‘the backup’? Did he mean Jack?

“Sir?”

“Never mind,” the scientist quickly waved a dismissive hand, quickly becoming perturbed. “Forget that I said anything.”

“Of course, sir.” 76 wanted to be cute and say something like _memory erased_ or something like that but decided against it. But he would, in fact, definitely remember. Maybe Moira knew something about this ‘backup’ thing. 76 was certain he could get her rambling about pretty much anything he wanted to if he framed it correctly, but he needed to be cautious. Whatever had Zimmer on edge was likely sensitive information and inquiring too much about it could spell trouble.

“Well? How does it fit?”

“It’s comfortable and feels to be constructed of high-grade materials. I like it.”

“You’d better like it,” Zimmer snorted. “Father designed it himself.”

“I’ll be sure to thank him at the first possibility to do so. I’m more than appreciative of the Director’s assistance with my acclimation. Also, I noticed that my uniform is equipped with ballistic weave. Is that typical? It’s a rare material on the surface.”

“It was decided that your specific uniform necessitated sturdier designs than standard due to your close proximity to hostiles. Most Coursers rarely get themselves in to a position where they must fight, and when they do they make a point to be stealthy about it, for obvious reasons. But you’ll be right in the middle of things virtually all of the time and are more liable to get yourself exterminated with standard armor, and you’re not very easily replicated. In short, we only get one chance at this, SS-76, so don’t screw it up.”

“I won’t, sir. I don’t fail.”

“Good. See to it that you don’t.”

“Yes sir.”

“I don’t typically agree with this sort of special treatment crap, but in your case it seems reasonable. The letterman jacket’s in terrible taste, though. You look less like a soldier and more like a damn homecoming king.” 76 had no clue what a ‘homecoming king’ was but he didn’t comment on it. “Now then, if you’re well and done playing dress-up, let’s begin.”

“Yes sir.”

Zimmer motioned and Armitage approached to offer a boxy white Institute rifle, which 76 took with a polite nod. The scientist watched 76 inspect the weapon with all of the expertise one might expect from a Gunner Major. “How do you like it?”

“It’s a little light-weight for a rifle. I presume that it’s constructed of lightweight plastics?”

“Yes. Primarily.”

“Hm.” 76 raised it to look down the sights, of which the rifle had very little. “What’s the range?”

“Approximately two-hundred and fifty feet,” Zimmer replied. “The base model may not be as powerful as a standard laser rifle, but these have a higher rate of fire, are quieter, and are cheap to produce." 

“I see.” 

The scientist frowned. “You disapprove?”

“It's not my place to approve or disapprove of Institute technology, Doctor.”

“No. Out with it,” Zimmer demanded. “I insist.”

76 turned the rifle in his hands again, considering his reply carefully. “Morrison wouldn’t approve of these weapons.”

“Why the hell not?”

“To be frank, sir, cheap is often a sign of unreliability, and lower damage output can result in death. Jack would rather have quality and see his men survive a battle than save a few caps. He was practical but he was also a professional. That being said, these mass-produced sort of weapons make sense for the Gen-1s and 2s sent above ground. However, for Gen-3s dealing with regular combat, such as Coursers, a more reliable and sturdier weapon would be preferable—considering how costly Gen-3s are to produce.”

Dr. Zimmer folded his arms and half-pouted. “I see. Well, how about you reserve judgement after you've tested it?”

“Of course. My apologies, sir.”

Zimmer snorted and motioned at a shooting range with various targets at different levels. “Let's see what you can do, SS-76.”

76 lifted the rifle and fired two shots at the first two target boards, the gun hissing as a bright blue beam flashed from the square muzzle. Without any perceptible hesitation or deliberation, 76 calculated the variances in rate of fire between the Institute rifle and a laser rifle, and that specific rifle's problem with firing two degrees off his aim before he shot eight more times, impeccably on-target.

“Perfect shots,” Zimmer gaped.

“Not all of them, but they were within acceptable deviation,” the synth commented matter-of-factly. Jack hated not being perfect every time. The thought that he was off-target be even a couple of degrees outside of his control those first couple of shots would probably haunt 76 for the rest of the day. _No excuses. Stop making excuses_ , Jack’s derisive thoughts bounced off the walls of his synthetic skull. _There are no excuses for failure_. _Do it perfectly or don’t do it at all._

“How do you like it, now that you’ve fired it?”

“It’s approximately thirty-percent faster than a standard laser rifle, which is good to see.” It wasn’t enough to justify using it over a laser rifle, but 76 wouldn’t cut down Zimmer’s pride any more than necessary for one day.

“Thirty-two percent, actually,” the balding scientist grinned.

“This one has a slight discrepancy in its aim, however.”

“A discrepancy? Explain.”

“It fires two degrees south-west of my target. Easily enough amended, but it’s my opinion that it should be noted for further production runs. May I test another for similar discrepancies?”

Dr. Zimmer snapped a finger and X6-88 appeared with a new rifle, which 76 accepted and inspected before raising and shooting, again hitting each target in the center. The final pair of boards twisted and dropped when he shot at them, an obvious attempt to throw him off, but 76 adjusted mid-aim and hit them both dead-center without any noticeable effort.

“Very impressive, SS-76,” the scientist complemented. “Very impressive, indeed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Well?”

76 turned the rifle in his hand. “It suffers the same problem: the beam slants south-west. This one’s actually a little bit worse than the first. It’s only a few degrees, but a few degrees can mean life or death in the field. In Jack’s mind, this would be considered unacceptable.”

“And you can detect such a small variance that just from firing it a few times?” Zimmer questioned. “I’m aware some Coursers are capable of detecting such flaws, but that’s not typical of their first handling of a firearm.”

“Jack was genetically enhanced and his abilities were duplicated in my design, so in that regard I should be considered to be an upgrade from a typical Courser unit. Jack spent a good deal of his spare time at the Blackwatch range testing their firearms for malfunctions and made a point to fix them himself. He didn’t really have any hobbies outside of work, sir.”

“Quite practical,” Zimmer smirked. 76 got the feeling that he’d have liked Jack, which was good news for him. “As you said.”

“Yes. Jack was very practical.” And boring. 76 was determined not to be as bland as Jack was. He badly needed to find a hobby, but it wasn’t going to be easy in a dry place like the Institute.

“And you’re certain this is all inherited from Mr. Morrison? Aside from the inclusion of his SEP enhancements? Or did Dr. O’Deorain provide you with upgrades that she has yet to share with the rest of the class?”

“Dr. O’Deorain has informed me that I’m genetically upgraded, and though I’ve noticed that I’m capable of increased physical strength and endurance, my mental and visual acuity seem unaffected. Thus far, nothing to do with field-testing Institute firearms has felt out of the ordinary, compared to Jack’s typical operations or results. He was simply very good with guns, sir, as am I.”

“I see. I’ll note the observations and have these weapons further tested. Now then, let’s move on to some more weapons tests. You’ve already proven to be a good shot and seem to be equipped with above-average aiming reflexes, which is all well and good but I’m eager to see how far I can push you, soldier.”

“I’ll continue to do my best to exceed expectations, sir.”

Dr. Zimmer rubbed his stubble. “Hmm… Soldier…’Soldier 76’… Yeah… That has a night ring to it, doesn’t it?”

76 knew well enough that the scientist wasn’t actually asking for his opinion. Zimmer might appreciate Jack’s opinions from a technical standpoint, but 76’s was just a robot’s. It would be valuable to learn exactly when he was expected to answer as Jack and his synthetic counterpart.

“Yes,” Zimmer decided. “I think that’s what I’ll call you: Soldier 76.”

“Thank you. It’s a good alias, sir.”

“Of course it is,” Zimmer puffed. “Let’s get you to work, Soldier. I have plans for you.”

“Yes sir.”

 

“May I ask a question?”

“You may, SS-76,” Moira hummed a reply, preoccupied with studying something through a high-powered microscope. She was alone in the BioEngineering lab, Dr. Ziegler nowhere to be seen. “How was your work with Dr. Zimmer this morning?”

It was twelve-thirty and Zimmer had released him for lunch, mostly because the doctor wanted one. X6-88 had gratefully been tasked with something else, so 76 took the opportunity to swing by the lab after being handed a ‘synth nutrition supplement’ for his lunch break—some sort of bland health shake with a gritty texture that caked in the back of his mouth. He’d honestly rather just skip lunch altogether if this is what passed as food.

“He gave me a nickname.” 76 dumped the plain white plastic tube that had contained his lunch into a shiny trash bin. It was perhaps a bit odd to focus on something as trivial as a trash bin, but it was difficult not to be fascinated by the smallest things here when everything top-side was so disgusting.

The red-head perked, turning her dual-colored eyes on him and smirking pleasantly before giving his new outfit a once-over. “Oh?” she purred. “Hopefully not rabbit.”

“No. Thankfully. I might have actually killed myself.”

She snorted and folded her thin arms, still grinning at him. “Well? What is it, then? Don’t keep me waiting on pins and needles.”

“Soldier 76.”

Moira pressed her lips together and tilted her head back as though considering this very seriously. “It’s…acceptable.”

“Better than rabbit.”

“Yes. Better than rabbit,” she agreed. “Nice outfit, by the way.”

“Uh. Thanks. Father designed it.”

“I know. I helped. He had very specific…requests…regarding the design and materials.”

“Oh.” Perfect. She definitely knew something.

“Now then, _Soldier 76_ , what was your inquiry? I’m very busy, as you can see.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

She arched a thin brow. “Pardon me?”

“Dr. Zimmer made a comment and seemed to want me to forget it. In fact, he told me to. My question has to do with it, but I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

Moira barked a single laugh. “Oh, you’re precious. Fine. What is it?”

“He said that I resembled ‘the backup’ and I was just wondering if you knew what he meant.”

“The backup,” she echoed thoughtfully. “I see. And why are you curious?”

“He got very antsy over it when he thought he’d said something he shouldn’t have.”

“If he misspoke, you really shouldn’t be asking about it,” she admonished.

“I’m snoopy for a synth, remember?”

Moira laughed and her toothy grin grew, snaking jaggedly ear to ear. “Yes, you are very snoopy.”

“You like that about me.”

“I suppose that I do. Very well. It’s not exactly top secret information. Virtually every scientist knows. But it’s not to leave this room that I informed you.”

76 nodded. “You have my word.”

“Father’s parents are pre-war.” Moira sat down in rolling office chair, adjusting her slacks as she folded her long legs.

“Pre-war? How is that possible?”

“They were in Vault 111, a cryogenic facility,” she explained. “When the Institute was beginning the process of constructing the first Gen-3 synths, they discovered the genetic abnormalities and mutations they carried even this far underground made it impossible to synthesize healthy human tissue. They required untainted human DNA, which they found in Vault 111. Father’s—Shaun’s—parents had carried him in to the vault with them, and he was only a babe. So the Director at that time sent an Institute mercenary named Kellogg to fetch the whelp. Things apparently didn’t go as planned, because Mrs. Washington was killed while Kellogg attempted to relieve her of her son. They turned off the pods to the remaining vault population with the exception of Shaun’s father, Nathaniel Washington, in case the baby’s genes didn’t work out or if he’d died.”

“So…Father’s _father_ is ‘the backup’?” 76 surmised. “I’m aware that I resemble the Director a good deal. He mentioned I’m the duplicate of his distant cousin—that he and Jack were related. So I guess you’re telling me that I also resemble this Nathaniel guy?”

“Yes. Washington was a part of the original SEP,” she continued. “The program was much more brutal than the one I ran, I assure you that much.” Moira rolled her chair to a desk and opened a drawer, producing a folder and rolling over to hand it to him.

76 opened the folder and his eyes expanded in to blue saucers at the photograph pinned to the front. A young man was staring back at him, looking exhausted and with a silent rage simmering in his large eyes. He was in similar clothing as 76 had been handed but with more combat armor pieces strapped to his arms and legs. He was standing beside several other men and women, all armed to the teeth, and a large dog was settled dutifully at his feet. The man stood out above the rest, not by height but by sheer presence, demanding to be seen.

The photograph was in black and white but their resemblance was undeniable. Nathaniel Washington was a soldier.

The blonde blinked in shock before filing through the photographs, several taken of this Nathaniel character in training routines, revealing each soldier had numbers embroidered on their chests and backs; his doppelganger’s was ‘06’. At the end of the small collection of photos was a bust-shot, the man’s intensity on full display and bags dragging under his light, clouded eyes. Jack had seen that look in the mirror many times before.

“Holy shit…” 76 plucked the bust off the folder for a closer look, running his fingers over the frayed edges of the photograph. Aside from some freckles and the stranger’s messy hair that badly needed trimming, they could pass as twins. At the bottom of the photograph ‘SEP Subject #06 – Code Name: Goldfox’ was written in faded cursive. He looked up, cerulean eyes still wide. “He looks just like me… And Father made me wear his clothes?”

“Your uniform is far more efficient, but they are of similar design. And yes, I personally find it to be a rather unhealthy fixation, but Father’s an odd one with crippling daddy issues. If he wants to play house with you, fine, but don’t let it undermine our work.”

“Uh… Right. I mean… No. I won’t let it undermine our work. I’m just…sort of surprised, is all. It was safe to assume that I’d resemble Jack’s relative but this is…well…it’s sort of crazy.”

Moira studied him before snatching the paperwork away and stuffing it all back in her desk. “Well now you know what you came to know.”

“And this guy, this Nathaniel, he’s still at the vault?” he asked.

She sighed loudly. “In cryogenic sleep, yes.”

“Why haven’t they pulled the plug yet?”

“Honestly? I have no earthly idea,” she scoffed. “I’ve considered requesting we move him here, actually. He’d be a rather fascinating subject.”

“Subject… Right…” 76 ran a hand through his hair, finding himself ironically bothered at the idea of another person resembling him existing elsewhere. Maybe this guy would wake up and try to kill him _,_ rather than the other way around. Nathaniel was a soldier, and a damn good one by the looks of it. If he managed to get out, it would spell bad news for Kellogg and any Institute staff he could get a hold of. 76 knew better than to underestimate an SEP soldier, even if this one wasn’t as enhanced as he was. 76 prayed to whatever god listened to robots that he’d never run in to the guy.

“Was that all, SS-76?”

“Huh?”

“Are you done bothering me?”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry. I should get back to the SRB.”

Moira rolled her eyes and moved back to look through her microscope. “Go back to playing with your silly toys, then.”

“Have a good afternoon, Doctor,” 76 nodded and strode from the lab, mind hazy.

His life just got stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 76 gets special treatment for being...different, both from the staff and Father. Not all good, but that has yet to be seen.  
> Moira loves SCIENCE!!!  
> There’s not much to work off of Dr. Zimmer as he’s represented in the game(s) so I just took some liberties with him and he ended up a bit…strange. I have no idea what happened, oops.  
> The next chapter inches 76 closer back to Blackwatch and facing whatever’s become of Gabriel.  
> More will be revealed about characters like Angela in time.
> 
> Also, my apologies for any errors. I've been running off very little sleep this week.


	9. Lies and Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several months after taking his first breath, 76 is cleared to be sent to the surface to face the wreckage that Jack left behind.

  “It’s about damn time,” 76 hid his enthusiasm behind an annoyed expression as he glanced over the paperwork. 

 Five months—it had been five months of proving himself day after freaking day, of showing that he was a capable soldier and devoted to the Institute’s agenda. At least, as far as they were concerned. 

To be frank, 76 was still enough Jack that he wasn’t terribly haunted by what was going on. The Institute was killing and replacing people sure, but in the long-run maybe it was better for them that way. Life above ground wasn’t exactly rainbows. People might actually be better off being quietly put down in their sleep than having to suffer just to scrounge together enough dirty, irradiated food to make it through the day.

The dust of snow left by Jack did wonders for his sleep, but 76 knew what the Institute was doing was wrong. Immoral. Monstrous. Still, he couldn’t just stop them. At least not alone. If he was going to put an end to the Institute, it would require literal years of planning and a swarm of armed backup that he had no idea how he’d ever manage to muster together. After all, humans didn’t exactly trust synths, and with good reason. Maybe someday. … _Maybe_. But 76 had enough of his own problems to deal with before he tried to save the whole damn planet. For now, a notice from Father that he was being released for above-ground operations was enough to satisfy him. Any longer in the pristine hallways and 76 might have lost his freaking mind. He’d been suffering a pretty overwhelming case cabin-fever for the last two months.

“Congratulations, SS-76,” Moira mumbled absentmindedly into her microscope. 

Dr. Ziegler wasn’t in the lab that day, meaning that she was probably back in the medical facilities where she actually belonged. When 76 had first arrived—woken up, been activated, whatever—he’d been under the impression that the pair of doctors were more friends than he understood them to be now. Five months of being with the women nearly every day had been more than enough for the synth to observe their delicate alliance. And that’s pretty much all it was: an alliance. Moira regarded her peer with respect, always looking at the blonde with admiration and seeming to sincerely value both Angela’s work and input, whereas Dr. Ziegler only seemed to tolerate her because she was required to. The blonde only came to the lab when instructed to by Father, and even then she only stuck around until whatever she needed to do was finished. She’d eat with Moira if cornered and converse with her on occasion, and she did make an effort to be friendly, but it was clear that Ziegler wasn’t pleased with her position. 

76 was certain the only reason that Angela stuck around at all was because the Institute was all she’d ever known. She’d explained once how been born and raised there, and that she’d never once stepped foot on the surface though she’d considered it. He suspected that she was fully-prepared and able to escape if she ever felt she needed to. He’d even considered the risky business of bringing it up once or twice or a hundred times, hoping that she’d be empathetic enough to pity him by not outright turning him in to Zimmer for daring to even discuss running away. If Ziegler was leaving, 76 wanted out with her, but at least for now he’d be able to go to the surface and get away from the daily tests and the constant looking over his shoulder as X6-88 breathed down his neck. He’d miss the food and the showers—Christ, would he miss the showers—but even with the Commonwealth being as disgusting and dangerous as it was, he was ready to see it for himself.

Posing as Jack Morrison was going to be easy enough, at least. Unlike other synths who had to depend on their training on their replaced subjects, 76 was more or less just a straight copy of Jack, so being him was only natural, though he liked to think of himself as more of Jack’s identical twin than a simple duplicate.

76 had been permitted to retain a majority of Jack’s more tenacious personality traits, not completely free of the Institute’s attempt to smother his identity but mostly so. Father was always willing to overlook the synth’s knack for independence when people whined about 76’s knack for snark, which was often, though he knew better than to abuse the favoritism. But even with Father’s and Zimmer’s preferential treatment, it had taken him five god damn months to get a gold star to work on the surface.

76 watched the geneticist scratch down some notes on a yellow notepad. Moira’s handwriting was like her, all rigid and hard edges, nothing like the elegant notes that Angela made. “I figured you’d be happier. Isn’t this what you wanted? Another spy in the camp, monitoring Reaper?” He’d become accustomed to the alias, finding Moira could become cross when he used Gabe’s name too often. Not to mention, it was frowned upon by basically the entire staff; ‘improper,’ it had been called. Whatever. Reaper was still Gabriel, alias or not.

“This mission is going to be incredibly risky and we only get one shot at this,” she grumbled. “I really would rather prefer not have to start over.” Something definitely had her on edge. Moira was typically bursting with confidence and rambling on about scientific mumbo-jumbo that 76 was genuinely interested in but didn’t fully understand.

76 dropped his paperwork onto the table. “Jack didn’t fail and neither will I.” Except for that one time with the minigun.

“I see that Morrison’s arrogance was not lost to you,” she titched.

“It never hurts to be self-confident. So, how’s Reyes looking lately?”

 “Poorly,” Moira sighed and sat back, tossing her reading glasses onto the table and running her spidery fingers through her hair. “The nanites are having difficulty containing the virus. He’s dying.”

76’s lips crooked as he made the gargantuan effort to not look like his heart had just splattered on the floor. “Dying? I thought this virus was a good thing?”

“Up until the past month, it has been, but it’s reached a more…mature…stage of development.” Moira leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling, sharp gears turning in her brain. “The nanites are still replacing the subject’s damaged cells as they were programmed to do, but the virus is becoming increasingly hostile. It’s beginning to literally decompose him from the inside-out while the nanites simultaneously attempt to heal the damage, putting him in a constant state of cellular decay and renewal.”

Anxiety trundled sickly in the pit of 76’s stomach. “Won’t he just become nanites that much faster?”

“It’s not that simple,” Moira shook her head. “The nanites can only reproduce themselves so quickly, and to do so requires both energy and materials. They’re having to focus on healing him more than reproducing, resulting in the virus spreading that much faster. They simply can’t keep up with the demand. In short, they cannot both heal him and reproduce quickly enough to replace his infected cells at the same time very efficiently without killing their host, themselves. It’s possible that the virus could take Reyes’ life before the nanites have the time to effectively replace enough of him to make him able to be resuscitated post-death. This is quite frankly putting the entire program at risk.”

“Why not just give him more nanites?” 76 suggested. “Isn’t that what Tom’s been doing all this time? If you can inject him with enough, they shouldn’t have to make more of themselves and can fight the virus.”

“Don’t you think I looked in to that already?” Moira hissed before removing her purple tie and throwing it on the table. “With Reyes’ heightened levels of hostility and absolute paranoia, TP-97 has been unable to do its work as efficiently as before. Not to mention that Jesse is practically always hovering around him. TP-97’s duties have become...impractical.”

“I could do it,” he offered matter-of-factly. “I could get Reyes to trust me enough to get close. I’m already going to be going there for that reason eventually, right?”

Moira snorted and eyed him knowingly. “You just don’t want to see him die.”

“I mean, there’s that,” 76 admitted. “Gabriel was Jack’s friend. It would go against my programming to not want to save his life, if at all possible, so long as it doesn’t conflict with my duties.”

Moira rolled her eyes. “Right. Of course.”

76 leaned in, brows furrowed seriously. “You know that I can get in there. I can do it, Moira. I can save him.”

“Yes, yes,” she sighed loudly and scrolled her nails across the table’s glossy surface. “I’m very aware of that fact. I’ve already discussed this matter with Father and he’s agreed to allow you to begin making contact with the subject as soon as you return to the surface.”

76’s eyes sparkled. “Really?”

“Don’t get too over-excited, SS-76,” she growled. “This situation is precarious. Gabriel is a good deal different from the man that Jack knew. He’s incredibly suspicious, and he’s already heard reports that Morrison died and likely won’t simply believe that you’re the real Jack. If you just showed up to Blackwatch, he’d likely outright kill you, particularly considering how things ended between those two fools. And even if you did manage to gain his trust, should you be discovered to be what he would perceive to be poisoning him, Reyes would make short work of you. You’re stronger than Jack was, to a degree, but Gabriel is still stronger.”

“I’ll be careful. I know Reyes better than practically anyone. If anyone can get through to him, it’s me.”

“I cannot believe it’s come to this,” Moira groaned and rubbed circles in to her temples. 

“Relax, Doc,” 76 flashed one of his best smiles through his anxiety. “I can handle this. I don’t want your test subject to die any more than you do.” Like hell he was going to let Gabriel die if he could help it. Pumping him with nanites and making him in to some weird, half-robotic monstrosity wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but 76 wasn’t going to just let him die. A Gabriel with robots in his blood was better than no Gabriel at all, and 76 was willing to do whatever it took to keep his friend alive, even if it meant Gabe would hate him.

“Don’t go to Blackwatch until he’s specifically invited you to do so,” she warned, “and even then you must be cautious. I mean it, SS-76. Gabriel is highly dangerous.”

76 began to gather his paperwork and stood. “He was always dangerous.”

“Not like this.”

The synth closed his assignment folder and looked at Moira, realizing just how serious the red-head was glaring at him with her strange eyes. “How dangerous are we talking here?”

“He’s been killing his own men. Anyone that doesn’t agree with him. Anyone that second-guesses a command. He kills them and occasionally puts their bodies up in warning, like a raider.”

76’s blue eyes tightened as he listened, his guts feeling hollow. Gunners would often follow a similar code of ethics, quick to put a bullet in someone to keep the lower ranks in line, but the idea of Reyes attacking any of his soldiers seemed unfeasible. “He’s seriously killing his men?”

“Yes. The only person immune to his wrath seems to be his captain, Jesse McCree. Why the brat hasn’t run by now, I have no earthly idea. TP-97 has reported that the subject has even committed acts of cannibalism, though I suspect that to be an exaggeration.”

“Well, shit… You’re not joking, are you?”

“No. End up on a spit after all of the work I did on you and I shall be very irked,” she warned. “Now get out. I have work to do.”

“Right. See you around, Doctor,” 76 saluted and wandered out, mind swimming.

Gabriel was dying. He was dying and going crazy and in desperate need of help. How was it even possible for Gabe to have fallen that drastically just from getting sick? 76 still didn’t pretend to understand this ‘alien virus’ Moira rambled about, but it sounded as serious as it did ridiculous. She rarely got this concerned about anything and it was more than enough to fray the synth’s nerves raw. 

Gabriel needed Jack, and 76 was determined to deliver.

 

“Teleporting in and out if the Institute is simple for Coursers.” It was three days later and they were in Ziegler’s lab, the simple but not entirely painless procedure of activating his Courser Chip having just ended. Angela was preoccupied with preparing a series of injections to prevent disease, though Moira had repeatedly insisted that he didn’t require them, while Zimmer explained how to use the second piece of plastic in 76’s skull to literally teleport himself around. “The chip permits you to tap directly in to the translocator via the Classical Radio frequency. Simply access the frequency and it shall teleport you directly back here or to wherever you desire.” 

Having a literal map pull up in his head was unsettling, even for a walking computer. 76 could too-clearly see it in his mind’s eye: a map of the Commonwealth, like a dream in hyper-focus. He preferred not to think about it and had requested that Moira upload it to the HUD on the mask she’d made him—some of the specialized gear she’d been teasing him about. The mask was a bit odd-looking, but the visor had a HUD that came installed with an upgraded version of the _Vault-Tech Assisted Targeting System_ (V.A.T.S.) that she’d designed and kept him from inhaling any toxins or radiation. It would prove useful in his marching through the over-world, but for now the bulky thing remained strapped to his belt.

Between the mask and his rather bright uniform, 76 would stand out in the wasteland, but he could pass it off as having discovered the gear in an old-world lab. The Institute has established a location he could utilize for such an explanation, complete with terminals citing the development of his unique gear as military equipment if anyone decided to look in to it, and he knew that the Gunners definitely would.

His ass was covered as well as it could be, but convincing the Gunners that he was the real Jack Morrison wasn’t going to be such a simple task. Though maybe it would be? 76 honestly wasn’t entirely certain how the Gunners would respond to seeing him looking so healthy after supposedly being taken captive by supermutants and going missing in the Capital wilderness for several months. He’d convinced Dr. Ziegler and O’Deorain to give him a few extra scars to sell the story, which wasn’t an easy feat with his healing upgrades, including two thin slits across his face. It did the job to make him look a little worse for wear and had the nice side-effect of making him feel that much more separated from Jack when he looked in a mirror.

Dr. Zimmer handed him Jack’s .45 rifle that Armitage had dug out of a metal crate set on the table. Carrying an Institute weapon would be an obvious no-no but they’d been smart enough to hold on to all of Jack’s gear, which the synth had now inherited. The gun was comfortable and familiar, and 76 took a moment to look it over and field strip it on the table. It was just how he remembered it—how _Jack_ remembered it.

76 grinned to himself and slipped his knives and other old weapons in their places as the rest of Jack’s weapons were unloaded, feeling more and more real and less like a robot with each piece, as though he were sliding neatly in to Jack’s skin. More…whole.

“Don’t get cocky and DON’T get caught,” the old man grunted as he watched 76 slide Jack’s dog-tags over his head and tuck them under his collar. “This mission isn’t an easy or simple one, and you’ll be right in the middle of shit if it all goes south. We can’t risk sending in Coursers to get you’re ass out of there if you get discovered. You’ll mostly be on your own, but I believe you’re ready.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’ve been ready since day one. But you can take confidence in my preparedness. I know what to expect and promise to remain vigilant.”

Zimmer smirked and clasped a hand on the larger man’s shoulder, giving it a firm shake. “I think that maybe you’re right about that,” he chortled. “Once this mission is over with, you can begin with some real Courser work. It won’t be long now before you’re finished with this Project Reaper nonsense and recovering high-profile runaways with X6-88. Contact me as soon as you’re at the point, and be sure to make contact with TP-97.”

“Of course, sir.”

The scientist nodded at 76 and then Moira and Angela before he turned and walked out the door, his bodyguard trailing closely behind him, as always.

“Real work my arse,” the red-head snorted before glaring at her creation as Angela ushered him to sit down for his injections. “Don’t die.”

Jack rolled his eyes and slipped his rifle strap over his shoulder, the familiar weight settling comfortably against his back before he sat down. The cold steel bit in to his shoulder but he didn’t make an effort to adjust it as Angela began to inject him. “Why does everyone keep saying that? I’m more than prepared for this mission. I was quite literally made for it.”

“We’re just worried for you,” Angela frowned and finished the third injection before fussing over the collar of his coat. “You’re one of a kind.”

“That’s what people keep saying.”

“Only because it’s true.”

“You can relax, okay?” 76 offered his best smile to calm the pretty doctor’s nerves. She smiled gently in return before stepping back and folding her hands in front of her to let him stand, and 76 rose from the chair and slid his sleeve back in place. “I’m going to be fine, Dr. Ziegler,” he promised. “I’m a professional.”

“A professional fool.”

Months of working with Moira had exposed how the doctor wasn’t exactly the best at the whole ‘feelings’ thing. She was arguably nearly as terrible as Jack had been with them, but 76 knew her well enough to read her irritation as displaced concern. “Hey,” he smirked. “What happened to my high IQ?”

“One can be intelligent and still be a fool. You don’t have to look far here for examples.”

“Hey, you said it, not me.”

“Father wishes to speak with you before you leave, so see to it and then be along. Message me as soon as possible. Dr. Zimmer as well, so he doesn’t continuously harass me with his nonsensical blubbering. The less I have to see of that man the better.”

“Right, Doc. I’ll contact you both as soon as possible. See you both around.” 76 snatched some grenades from the table, snapping them to his belt before he saluted them and headed through the door.

He found the pretty-eyed Director in his open-air office on the second floor, where he could typically be found if he wasn’t stuck in a meeting, which was often. The blonde was sitting at his stark-white desk, reading what looked to be an old-world poetry book. It was good to see him making an effort to relax. 76 had encouraged him more than once to step back from his never-ending workload, and though Father had fussed and fought him about it, he’d finally started to take the advice.

76 had been careful to cultivate a close working relationship with Father and had somehow even managed to keep his personal quarters, much to the not-so-quiet exasperation of literally everyone. 76 made a point to spend time with the Director, whom he knew better as Shaun, discussing the scientist’s work and early life and Jack’s many adventures. Luckily for them both, 76 was better at talking than his predecessor had been, lacking a majority of Jack’s social awkwardness.

He snatched the chair in the corner and dropped in to it backwards. “Good afternoon, Director.”

Shaun glanced from his book, closing it after marking it with what looked to be a strip of baby-blue paper. “Good afternoon, 76. How was your exit review with the good doctors?”

“It went well,” the synth nodded. “Dr. Ziegler gave me some shots, though O’Deorain’s pretty positive that I have no need for them.”

“Simple precautions, I’m sure. And I see that Dr. Zimmer finally returned Mr. Morrison’s gear to you. How do you like it?”

“Yes. It’s…comfortable. Familiar.”

“Good. I’m aware that you have managed to separate yourself from Mr. Morrison quite well up until now, but it’s imperative that you be close enough to him to pass as Jack above ground. Such familiarities are absolutely invaluable tools, to this end. Any sign of differentiation between the two of you could spell disaster. The Gunners are not a faction to be trifled with.”

76 was starting to get the impression that Shaun didn’t want him to leave at all. “Worried about a synth, Director?” he smirked.

Shaun offered a small grin hedging affection. “Perhaps a bit,” he admitted. “You are very special.”

“I don’t know why everyone keeps saying that. Dr. O’Deorain can always make another copy of Jack.”

“Not likely to your degree of success, and certainly not without great effort. The fact that you came out so perfectly is nearly a miracle. We hardly expected the effort to duplicate Mr. Morrison to work at all, what with how damaged he was.”

“Dr. O’Deorain emphasized that she could make another copy should it be necessary, so I only assumed that it wouldn’t be too much trouble to do so.”

“Yes, well, Dr. O’Deorain quite often exaggerates,” the scientist grinned and removed his reading glasses, folding the frames and setting them gently upon the desk. “The fact of the matter is that transferring a complete human mind in to a computer is not so simple a task, even for us. The process comes with many trials and renders a synth at high-risk for malfunction. You are quite different from the last synth who the Institute managed to transfer memories into. The unit, Valentine, struggled to retain its imported memories and was highly agitated. Granted, it was a previous generation model and a prototype, but we expected to experience similar issues with you. You certainly impressed us not only with the ease at which the memories bonded to you but with how well you handled them. You have been more than an exemplary unit, 76.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m glad to know that I met your expectations.”

“You do not need to be so formal, 76,” Father smirked. “Perhaps more than other scientists here, I am well-aware that you are more human-like than your peers. Not _human_ , of course. You’re still an artificial intelligence,” he was quick to add when seeing the look of surprise on the synth’s face. “But it is truly inspiring to see what we are capable of achieving here at the Institute, should we simply put our minds to it. Our methods are improving, and you’re certainly evidence of that.”

“Thanks,” 76 rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his cheeks threaten to flush. “It’s…still easy to forget that I’m not Jack. Some days are harder than others, but I’m more comfortable with who and what I am now than even yesterday. Every day gets easier, especially with all of the support you’ve given me.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Now then, are you prepared to go to the surface?”

“As prepared as I can be,” the synth nodded. “We’ve got my story worked out and backed with sufficient evidence. Once I’m settled at my old Gunner outpost, I’ll make contact with Dr. Zimmer and O’Deorain before I check in with TP-97 at Blackwatch. From there I’m to contact Gabriel to begin the process of gaining his trust while I gather intel on the Gunners. Once receiving an invitation to Blackwatch, I’m to ‘retire’ from the Gunners to work with Reyes. By then, I should be able to get close enough to start delivering the nanites that Dr. O’Deorain has provided me with to continue her project. I’ll also be investigating TP-97 to ensure the unit isn’t malfunctioning. Should TP-97 turn out to be damaged or compromised, I’ll utilize his recall code to render him unconscious and have him transported back to the Institute for reformatting. If for whatever reason I can’t manage that, I’ve been instructed to destroy the unit, but I don’t think it’ll come to that. Based on what I’ve heard and remember of him, TP-97 is fairly reasonable. It’s likely that he’s simply struggling with everything going on at the outpost, but I’ll be looking in to it and reporting all of my findings in regular reports.”

“Hm. Well, it certainly sounds as though you have it all worked out,” Shaun nodded satisfactorily, “but do practice caution. The Commonwealth is exceedingly treacherous, particularly for our undercover personnel.”

“Of course, sir. I could report in to you directly, if you’d like.”

Shaun grinned a little at that. “I believe that I would appreciate that very much, 76. Thank you.”

“And do you promise me that you’ll keep trying to find some time to yourself while I’m gone?”

“Yes, yes,” the Director waved the synth’s concerns away with a hand. “Now be off. And good luck, 76. Dr. O’Deorain is depending on you for the success of this project.”

76 stood and strapped his new mask on before turning away to bring up a map of the Capital, focusing about five miles west from his old Gunner camp: Gibraltar. He was admittedly only a little nervous at the idea of zapping around, his atoms being ripped apart and depending on technology to piece him back together again.

Would it hurt?

The synth rolled his shoulders and exhaled an uneasy breath before activating the signal, and was immediately overwhelmed by a thundering flash of white light. The process felt instantaneous, and if the clock on his HUD were right, it definitely was. 76’s body tingled all over but the sensation was brief, fading within a few seconds, though his synthetic heart pound wildly in his chest, memories of the hideous supermutant and its minigun flashing and roaring uncontrolled through his mind. 76 gripped his chest and stumbled a step backwards while trying to wrangle Jack’s frenzied memories to force back into the void.

After few minutes of slow breathing, 76 managed to shake the nightmares off. The blonde glanced around at cracked and barren landscape of the Capital Wastelands, finding the hazy green air and twisted ruins on the horizon to be familiar. His HUD illuminated small figures scurrying around in the distance, tracking their speed and other relevant data while listing off things like the date, time, temperature, and his current location.

“Welcome home, Jackie,” he sighed before beginning the long walk towards the Potomac, each step bringing him closer to returning to Blackwatch; to Gabriel. “Welcome home.”

 

“Stop right where you are, blondie! Take one more step and I’ll blow your fucking brains out! Hands up where I can see ‘em!”

76 raised his gloves in the air and looked up at the guard on watch. The walk to Outpost Gibraltar had been graciously uneventful and he’d made good time. It was just shy of six in the evening and the camp was beginning to settle down for dinner. Assuming things hadn’t changed since Jack had lived there, and 76 highly doubted that they had, the guards would be making a shift change in the next few minutes. “Private Bice? Johnathan Bice?”

The short-haired brunette eyed him from his position high on the rusting scaffolds, raising his rifle to inspect 76 through the sights before dropping it again. “Morrison?” he squawked. “Holy shit. Morrison, is that you?”

“Guilty as charged,” he called back, open-palmed hands still in the air.

“Holy shit! HEY, GUYS!” the guard screamed at some of the soldiers on the other side of the wall. “GUYS, IT’S MORRISON! HE’S FUCKING ALIVE!”

“How’s Donna doing? Still trying to grow tatos in that sorry excuse of a yard?”

The private looked back at the presumed-dead Strike Commander and adjusted his metal helmet before flashing a toothy smile. “She’s doing pretty great, Commander! And screw you! Where the hell have you been? You’re supposed to be dead after what happened with Jimmerson!”

“Sorry to disappoint you. I hope that Jimmerson’s doing well.”

“Jim left not long after you uh, you know...died.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Meh. He wasn’t built for this line of work. Sort of a wet blanket, y’know? I mean, he was a nice kid 'n all, but _yeesh_.”

“Right. Hey, I need to speak with Colonel Anderson. Is she available?”

“Bridgette?” Bice was always awful about using first names. It was good to see he hadn’t changed. Jack had often been exasperated by him but he also had genuinely liked the guy. Bice was a bit of a doofus, but he was also smart, quick on his feet, and loyal, all qualities Jack had valued. “She’s in some meeting with the other big-wigs. You know how it is. I actually heard she’s meeting with the Brotherhood ‘Elder’ guy. What a bunch of narks, am I right?”

“You were always terrible are sharing too much information,” 76 chuckled and finally lowered his hands but made sure to keep them from his weapons. The last thing he needed was a mistranslation of body language. “May I speak with someone else, then? I’ve sort of got to file a rather ridiculous and extensive field report.”

“May I? God, you’re such a fucking nerd.”

“ _Bice_.”

“Okay, okay. I dunno. Uh… I’ll uh… I’ll go ask for you. Give me a second.” He jogged down the stairs and vanished from view, returning a few minutes later. “Okay, Captain Blair says you can come inside but you have to turn in all your weapons. He also called you a pretty-boy loser. Should I kick his ass for you, Commander?”

“Oh, come on. I outrank Blair!”

“Sorry, Jackie. I don’t make the rules, I just follow them. Mostly. Usually. Sometimes.”

“Fine. You can hold my gun if it'll make you happy," 76 winked.

Bice gasped dramatically and put a hand to his heart. "Was that a...JOKE?"

"It might have been. You'd be amazed at how nearly being made in to soup will give you a sense of humor."

"You're not real. There's no way. I'm going to shoot you and steal all your shitty rifles. Why the hell do you like .45s so much? Everyone knows plasma's where it's at in Gunner territory."

"No reason to insult my personal preferences, Private. I could have your ass court marshaled."

"ANOTHER JOKE? Be still my beating heart! Jack Morrison came back to life with a fucking sense of humor!"

"All right, all right," the synth snickered. "All jokes aside, I expect my weapons back undamaged or you’re doing laps until your feet are numb, got it, Bice?”

“I missed you too, Commander. HEYA, BIGGS! _BIGGS_! YES, YOU, YOU STUPID ASS! OPEN THE GATE!”

76 took a step back as the old wood and metal gates screeched open and was immediately swarmed by both new and familiar faces. He removed his mask to solidify his false identity as the crowd asked questions and hollered grateful welcomes and insisted on touching him to make sure that he was real. He wasn’t, of course, but they’d have no way to know that without digging the plastic from his brain, though he was sure it wouldn’t come to that.

“Welcome back, Strike Commander,” Bice saluted and beamed a yellow-toothed smile. “God damn. I can’t fucking believe it. You look pretty damn good for a guy that single-handedly fought an entire supermutant camp. Nice new scars, by the way.”

“I’m glad to be back, Private Bice,” 76 grinned. “And thanks. I made it out pretty well, all things considered. Still got all of my limbs intact, so a few scars are a pretty good exchange by my book.”

“Hell yeah they are! You’re one lucky S.O.B., Commander. Where’d you get the new threads? Lookin’ pretty badass.”

“Hm? Oh, the armor. I found it stashed in an old military bunker about fifteen miles south-east of here. I’d lost pretty much all of my gear by then so it was a godsend.”

“You look like a superhero from one of those comics. I like it!”

The blonde handed his weapons off to a Corporal to have them inspected and stored. He’d get them back later. This was all standard Gunner procedure. Jack had been presumed dead for nearly half a year and they’d need some reassurance before 76 would be welcomed in to the fold. Not everyone was going to be as open and hospitable as Bice. “Thank you. I’ve become rather fond of the new uniform, myself, even if it’s a bit gaudy for my usual tastes.”

“Says the guy that wore a neon blue trench-coat,” Bice snorted and did a circle around him, occasionally patting the leather. “What’s the 76 stand for?”

“Do you remember SEP?”

“Considering that I worked for one of the only two survivors of the program, I’d better freaking remember it.”

“This is actually the uniform for the original pre-war program.”

“Holy shit! No kidding?”

“Each soldier in the program had an assigned number. I found this set in a crate at a pre-war bunker when I was just looking for a place to hide out and lay low for a while. The owner died during the program, so the gear was just stored away and forgotten. It was the only real stash I found while squatting there, but it’s served me well.”

“That’s friggin’ amazing,” Bice gaped at the half-lie. “Of all people to find it, it’s another SEP soldier? Two-hundred years later? God damn. It was like…destiny.” Private Bice had always reminded Jack of a Capital Wasteland version of Jesse. 76 hadn’t met Jesse yet but if Bice was any indication, he’d probably like him more than Jack had.

“Yeah, Bice,” 76 chuckled. “It was like destiny.”

“Hey, listen, I’m about on my break so I’ll take you to the civilian tent and we can catch up some before Blair comes to talk your ear off with all that professional trash.”

“Thank you, Private. I think that I’d like that.”

 

Four hours later and Jack was given the green-light to get settled. It hadn’t been easy to convince the Colonel that he was the real Jack Morrison, not with the paranoia running rampant even in the Capital, but he’d easily passed every question and test that they could think of. She had no legitimate reason not to let him “back” in to the fold, but 76 could tell she was going to remain responsibly wary of him for at least a couple of weeks, searching and poking for any signs that he wasn’t the legitimate Jack. He’d honestly expected to be more nervous, but it all came so naturally and so smoothly that the synth’s nerves had yet to prickle. Father had been right about him being so close to Jack that it was uncanny. Even 76 had days where he struggled with the fact that he wasn’t the Strike Commander. Luckily, today wasn’t one of those days.

His weapons were nestled neatly in a green locker at the base of the cot he’d use until they could find him more permanent quarters. Jack’s old room had of course been reassigned within two weeks of his going MIA, per standard regulations. The Gunners never wasted anything.

76 sat down at the terminal, checking it for any signs of tampering before deciding it was safe to use. He bit at some of the Brahmin jerky he’d been given and stared at the dark green screen while trying to scrounge together the willpower to start a message. What was he supposed to even say? “Sorry Jack ran off and hey he’s dead, but have a shitty robot wearing his skin”?

Five months of daydreaming about this moment and 76 still didn’t know what to actually say.

He stared at the screen for a while, gnawing on the tasteless jerky and leaning back in his metal chair while absorbing the noises and smells of the camp, finding them familiar even though this was his first time there. Everything felt…right. Comfortable. Jack hadn’t cared for Gibraltar but it was relaxing in its predictability and consistent rhythms, his compulsive need for organization finally being satiated. Things were well-regulated there, particularly compared to the more chaotic Blackwatch. Jack preferred the order he’d found at the Capital but quietly missed the hectic afternoons back home.

Home… Blackwatch was _home_. 

76 sighed and ran a hand through his already-dirty hair, dropping the legs of his chair with a thud and opening a new window on the terminal. He couldn’t avoid Gabriel any longer.

> Hey, Gabe. It’s Jack.
> 
> I’m sure you heard I was dead. Obviously, that news was a bit over-exaggerated.
> 
> I managed to escape the mutants after a few weeks of being their hostage and being threatened to be turned in to a sandwich a few hundred-dozen times. I didn’t immediately return to the Gunners because nearly being eaten alive really puts things in perspective, and I took the opportunity to go MIA for a while.
> 
> After some reflection, I returned to my post this week and they let me back in without too much fretting, but I’ve come to realize just how much I hate it here. It’s not like it was back at Blackwatch. You were right about taking the job: I’m not happy. I’m actually pretty miserable, so I guess that you can take some solace in my suffering.
> 
> I hope that you’re doing well. Rumors are that you’ve been having some sort of personal problems. Is it anything that I can assist with?
> 
> I know that it’s nearly been a year and a half since I walked out on you and absolutely destroyed you--us--but please contact me should you find yourself willing to do so. I know that what I did to you was appalling and cold and (let’s be fair) characteristically cruel of me, and you have every right to hate me for it.
> 
> I’m not asking for forgiveness or even a second chance, but I’m hoping that maybe, in time, we could be friends again, if you’ll have me.
> 
> Your friend,
> 
> Jack Morrison

Message sent and first lies seeded, 76 stripped down to his under-armor before climbing in to his cot and closing his eyes. He wouldn’t sleep, too wired about the reality of where he was and what he was doing, but he could at least shut his eyes for a while.

The synth exhaled into his pillow, trying not to smell the lingering sweat and dirt in the thin casing, and imagined Gabriel’s face, pulled back yet again to that haunting memory of the roof. 76 swallowed down the anguish and frustration and clung to some unwarranted faith that he could pick up all of the shattered pieces of Gabriel’s heart and somehow glue them back together. But even if he actually managed to fix Gabriel’s damaged soul, 76 knew that he didn’t deserve to hold it, to feel the warmth of a human heart beating, to be trusted and cherished and loved as Jack had almost been.

He wasn’t Jack. He was a counterfeit. A robot. And once Gabriel found out, whatever 76 managed to piece together would once again crumble. 76 would never be back, _could_ never be Jack, but he’d pretend to be if it gave Gabe even a moment of happiness.

For just a few months, weeks, days, hours, seconds, he could at least try to give Gabriel a model of what he deserved. And then they could fall apart. This time, together.

 

Was this some sort of joke?

Gabriel blinked slowly at the green letters staring back at him, neon and harsh against the green-black background. A year later and colors were still off, some too bright and others too dark. Reading e-mails was a damn chore and he rarely bothered with it anymore, but today he’d felt like checking what whining was waiting for him that morning and had been greeted by an e-mail from someone claiming to be Jack fucking Morrison.

Jack, Jack, Jack…

Gabriel’s head ached as the memories bled back in to his conscious, choking the last remnants of giving-a-shit back up from his guts in a frothing mess and making his mind swirl when that gorgeous face came in to view. Jack was all ceruleans and golds and pearly whites, pristine and perfect and everything he never was and could never hope to be. How could he have allowed himself to forget Jack?

_Because he ruined you_ , the voice raked through his skull and shook through his bones. _Because he abandoned you. Because he ripped you apart and threw the pieces to the wind. Because you’re better off alone._

“Shut the fuck up. Jack was perfect,” he growled at the reflection in the screen, the greens going blurry and the reds of the beast’s eyes shining back in the dusty glass.

Kremvh’s Tooth had brought more than just increased physical strength, limitless endurance, and the ability to see well-beyond what should be visible. With the many boons had also come a cold and black mirror that twisted Gabriel’s spiritual reflection in the smooth pitch: a spiritual parasite. Its lurking visage was never in focus, all of its twisting edges blurred as though it were constructed of smog.

The eldritch shadow jeered and snarled while squirming through Gabriel’s insides like a ravenous mass of fanged worms in his blackened veins. _He was a disruption,_ it whispered deep in his bones. _He only used you for his own advances. After toying with you and taking what he required, he tossed you aside and left you to rot._

“He loved me.”

_NO,_ the beast howled. _He didn’t. If he had, he’d still be here. But he’s not. He’s dead._

The lieutenant snorted and rubbed his temple in effort to coerce the dull throb from his skull, knowing that there was no point to it. “That’s what they told me, yeah.” Gabriel had heard rumors from the Capital that Jack had died but no one had been able to explain what had actually happened in any detail. It was always hearsay and virtually never with concrete facts. No names or actual locations that he could pin to a map. He’d half a mind to trudge out there himself and wring some necks to get some actual answers, but Jack had made it pretty fucking clear that he didn’t want anything to do with him. Even now, in the wake of everything, Gabriel couldn’t help but honor the passive request. “But what if he’s still alive?”

_He’s not. Whoever or whatever this is, it’s not Jack Morrison._

“You don’t know that.”

_You are setting yourself up for misery, Gabriel. Let us not waste our time with humoring this pitiful effort of provocation. We have things to do._

Things like eating.

The lurking beast was hungry, always hungry, and not for anything that Gabriel could prepare for it. Keeping Kremvh’s Tooth satisfied required blood, and lots of it. The weapon only sang for him when it was coated in it, quivering and sighing in pleasure in his palm when it was slicing through muscle and cutting through bone. The sweep of energy rushing his cells and the sweet aroma of blood in the air when he cut someone down was maddening. It was an addiction and Gabriel had long since stopped trying to fight it, opting instead to feed it. Kremvh’s Tooth excelled at throwing pleasure over the pain in his chest, palliating his spiritual wounds. It could never replace what was lost or heal what was damaged—it didn’t bother to try or even to pretend that it could—but it redirected Gabriel’s grief and offset his anxiety while also relieving him of any remorse.

If Jack really was alive and ever came home, he’d be disgusted with what Gabriel had become.

The chance of even a remote possibility of Jack speaking with him was enough to make Gabriel’s numbed insides spark and prickle, and he could feel the lurking thing within him hiss and coil with jealous frustration. He ignored it and began to type.

_What are you doing? This is imprudent._

> RE: IT’S JACK.
> 
> Prove that you’re Morrison.
> 
> -Reyes

Gabriel stared at the message for a lingering moment while the beast snarled and writhed beneath his skin before hitting Enter.

_You thoughtless, foolish, selfish child,_ the beast scolded. _Is it not enough, all that She has done for you? Ug-Qualtoth has gifted you with eternal youth and Sight and knowledge above and beyond all other living men. You have become a god among fleas! And what did this ‘Jack’ do? He did nothing but take from you. Why do you insist on being devoted to a creature that offered you nothing but misery?_

“He gave me happiness.”

The foul soul jerked and snarled through his center, knotting and rattling up his spine. _Happiness,_ it tut. _What a naïve and impractical and mortal concept._

“Calm down. Christ.” Gabriel stood and stretched before snatching a blood pack from a lunchbox he kept on a shelf. Sipping at them like a grotesque juice-box appeased the urges for a time and gave him an hour or so to get ready in the morning. He might be a monster but like hell he’d given up all of his dignity.

_Mark my words, Gabriel. You will suffer for this._

Yes. Gabriel expected that he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot more was supposed to happen in this chapter but I ended up writing more before 76 left than intended. At least we made it to Gabriel and got a sneak-peak of what’s going on at Blackwatch. But things should actually start to *happen* now that 76 is on the surface.
> 
> Sorry this chapter took longer than usual to get up!


	10. The Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 76 attempts to mend some of the broken ties Jack left behind while Gabriel struggles with his demons.

>  TP-97 reporting in.
> 
> The subject remains hyper-aggressive and acutely suspicious of everyone but Jesse.
> 
> I’ve been unable to dose Reaper for half a year and going. He’s been particularly wary of me and I must be cautious so that he doesn’t suspect outside involvement.
> 
> Birds are my recommended method for communication. Gunners can be prying and simply deleting e-mails is insufficient security. Destroy any communications that you receive and be discreet, though I suppose that I likely don’t have to tell you that. Your predecessor was nothing short of judicious.
> 
> I’ve heard a great deal about you from Dr. Zimmer. He tells me that you’ve been regularly making a show of beating around the other units, which I’m certain isn’t an overstatement.
> 
> I look forward to meeting you formally, SS-76.

Tom rolled the note up with care and tied it with a string of blue thread to prepare it for the day’s bird sendoff. He’d received news that Jack had reported in to Dr. Zimmer very early that morning. Experience led Tom to prefer the use of birds over terminals for private communication, as terminals were more easily hacked than birds were caught.

Several years in to the mission and Tom was only now beginning to feel the culpability for his actions settle in. He’d struggled with guilt after Jack had left and then, regrettably, died. Tom had always known he was a synth. He’d been created at the Institute for the purpose of replacing the original Thomas Stultz many years ago. He’d been trained and educated, and killed his predecessor before taking his place at Blackwatch. He knew what he was and what he was not, but he was beginning to question his purpose. It certainly didn’t help things that Tom was required to interact with Jesse increasingly often, challenging the synth’s sense of self and duty. There was something about him that got the spy’s nerves to unwind and see the world differently—a child-like, naïve sort of zest for life that was nearly infectious.

What was he doing? Why was he devoted to the Institute? Because they’d told him to be? Because they could kill him? Because they could reset his very existence with a few jumbled words and letters?

Cautious and independent research put TP-97 in contact with a group of synth-sympathizers known as the ‘Railroad’: humans that sought to liberate synths and believed that they were just as human as anyone born of a womb. They were wrong, of course; synths weren’t human. The idea was outright laughable, honestly, but…compassionate. The humans meant well. They were genuine in their desire to help rescue individuals they saw as people in need of support and believed that synths deserved rights the same as anyone else. It was an honorable endeavor, at the very least.

As a Courser, Tom knew all about the Railroad. About how they erased the minds of runaway synths, somehow believing that they were helping them. About how they relocated reformatted synths to the Capital and other places, hoping to give the walking toasters a chance at a ‘real’ life. It was remarkably naïve but noble, and Tom was dangerously close to seeking their help for himself.

He was tired of it. Tired of being the Institute’s spy. Tired of being a liar to people whom he genuinely had come to like and who liked him in return, even if his entire existence was a farce.  If Jesse knew what he was and what he’d done, even he would turn on Tom.

Jesse—loveable, precious, devoted Jesse—had become a source of comfort and support for him like no one else in Tom’s brief existence. He hated lying to his one legitimate friend and had more than a few times nearly spilled the beans about the whole thing, but he’d been dutiful and kept the truth to himself. It would only ruin Jesse’s perceptions and make him paranoid if he knew what was actually going on. But now a replacement of Jack—SS-76—was inevitably going to be coming to Blackwatch and Tom was again struggling with what the ‘right thing to do’ was. Should he warn Jesse?

For now, he’d continue to operate per the norm. The Institute was already concerned that Tom had had malfunctioned and become compromised, which he definitely had. No one had to tell him that Dr. Zimmer was glowering at him from behind a terminal screen, ready to send a Courser to eradicate the synth or to return him to base as soon as the scientist had an excuse to do so. Tom had to be prudent. Whatever he did next was going to change the course of his life forever, but he didn’t want to get Jesse involved if he could help it. If the human got killed in the crosshairs, Tom suspected that he couldn’t live with the guilt.

“Tommy! Hey, Tom!”

The lieutenant glanced up from the tiny scroll he’d been staring down at while thinking and leaned to open the door to his personal quarters, smiling gently at the bright grin beaming up at him from the other side. “Good morning, Captain McCree,” Tom greeted. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

At over six-foot, Jesse had filled in nicely, still long and lean and nimble but with more muscle mass to him. He was definitely looking more rugged than the scrawny ‘coyote’ that Gabriel had marched in to Blackwatch only a couple of short years ago, particularly with the full beard he now sported. The nineteen-year-old captain was dressed in dirty jeans and a red plaid shirt, complete with actual-to-god cowboy boots, a red handkerchief around the neck, and that big hat of his. To top off the complete disregard for Gunner-standard attire was the ridiculous BAMF belt that Tom had gifted Jesse for Christmas last year. He’d found the thing in the Super Duper Mart downtown while on an escort job. It looked to be some sort of Halloween article. The buckle had meant to be a joke but Jesse proudly wore the silly thing every day. He was positively absurd and Tom couldn’t get enough. Jesse was nothing if not endearing.

“Gettin’ professional on me, Lieutenant?” Jesse chuckled. “Isn’t it a bit early f'r that?”

“ _For_  that,” Tom smiled. They’d been working on Jesse’s language skills for the last few months, and though the teenager’s broken English left much to be desired, he was making headway.

Jesse rolled his eyes and shook his head, still grinning. “Christ on the cross, you’re killin’ me here, Stultz. Y’r the absolute worst— _you’re_ ,” he quickly self-corrected. “Shit.”

Tom laughed and moved to let his friend inside. The captain made regular visits now, which always interrupted his Institute work, but he considered it to be one of the perks of his job. The day practically wasn’t complete until the captain had waggled his brows or hit on him. “How are you doing this morning, Jesse?”

“Okay, I guess…” Jesse sighed loudly and flopped in to the padded chair in the corner, his long legs sticking out as he slouched and his wide-brimmed hat falling on his face. The boy groaned into the hat, indicating he wanted Tom to inquire further.

Tom sat down on the end of his bed, moving the neatly-folded plaid blanket to the side. “You don’t sound okay.”

“It’s just… I’m worried, Tom…”

“About Gabriel?” Tom guessed. Gabriel and Jesse were close, almost to the point of being like father and son, and Tom felt dismal for tainting his relationship with the teenager by betraying his trust. But work was work, and the nanites were probably the only thing keeping him alive at this point, based on the information he’d received from Dr. O’Deorain.

“Yeah… About Gabe… He’s just… It’s so bad, Tommy… What do we do? I’m ‘bout at my rope’s end here…”

“I don’t know, Jesse. I don’t think there’s much either of us can do, to be honest, aside from just supporting him. Gabriel’s going through a lot right now and he’s taking it out on the soldiers. Just…keep taking him out. Hunting does seem to help with his aggression levels.”

“Actually, I was gonna ask if maybe you’d be willin’ tuh cover me this afternoon so I could do just that,” he admitted. “I know you got off just the last hour and it’s a lot to ask of you…”

The synth smiled and held up a hand. “Don’t fret, Jesse. I’m happy to cover for you. Gabriel is my friend, too.” It wasn’t a lie. Spending several years working with someone had a tendency to get you closer than intended, and Tom did consider Gabriel to be a friend—a work friend. It wasn’t like it was with Jesse. Jesse, with his big, lazy smiles and easy mannerisms and charming way of talking.

“Thanks, Tommy,” Jesse smirked a bit timidly and plucked off his hat to drop it on the lieutenant’s head. “Looks good on you. Maybe you're a cowboy under all that nerd.”

Tom slid his long fingers along the brim to lower it and hide his flushed cheeks. “There can be nerdy cowboys,” he defended.

“I suppose that’s true.”

“And you’re not much of a cowboy yourself without any brahmin to tend.”

“Hey!” Jesse laughed. “I can too be a cowboy! It’s all in the swagger, Tommy.”

“Hmm. You could use some chaps to sell it. And maybe some spurs or something equally ludicrous. You already have the boots and hat.”

“Don’t tempt me. Gabe would pro’ly have my hide. He already chomps my grits over the belt.”

“ _Probably_ ,” Tom grinned and removed the hat to offer it back.

Jesse smirked that easy smirk, eyelids lowering as the browns of his eyes smoldered, and delivered a low and thoughtful hum that made the synth’s blood run hot. “Is it just me or are you blushin’, Lieutenant?”

“It’s just you,” Tom laughed evasively.

Jesse stood from his slouched position and snatched the comb from the red-head’s cargo pants to fix his hat-hair before handing it back and kissing him on the head. “You’re adorable,” he grinned smugly and flopped his hat back on his head before turning on his heeled boot to stride out. “Shame I’m already spoken for. I’ll see yuh this afternoon, Tom! Get some good shuteye,” Jesse winked and shot a pair of finger-guns before letting himself out.

After several minutes of sitting in awkward silence, Tom recalled the scroll in his pocket and rose to send it off. Jesse or no Jesse, he had to keep up the illusion of normalcy until he could decide what to do. But the kid sure wasn’t making it easy on him. If he weren’t careful, Jesse might become a real problem. Tom hadn’t yet decided whether or not he was alright with that.

 

It was still early, not quite eight, but there were a few soldiers there finishing up their breakfast. Gabriel typically ate and was ready no later than six or seven and that was when the cafeteria was almost completely emptied. The Gunners keen to keep their distance from their commander nowadays. But Gabriel had gotten distracted by the whole e-mail thing and was running uncharacteristically tardy.

Jesse was still manning the stove, busy cleaning up from preparing breakfast for the soldiers. “Mornin’, boss,” he saluted as Gabriel sauntered in to the Mess Hall.

Ever since Gabriel had brought the artifact home, his soldiers were walking on eggshells, none too eager to be the next victim of the twisted blade, but Jesse was different. The kid knew he could get away with more and genuinely wanted Gabriel to ‘get better’, which was appreciated but also obnoxious.

The shadow squirming in his blood loathed the young captain, viewing Jesse as nothing more than a bright-eyed diversion. It had more than once attempted to force Gabriel’s hand in to killing him, only to find that its host was too strong a soul to give in to the urge. Jesse was his mijo and nothing could convince him otherwise, not even an eldritch shadow monster. No matter how deep in to insanity he fell, Gabriel wouldn’t raise a hand to him without a legitimate reason, and Jesse knew it. Even so, the boy was still apprehensive, always on the lookout for one of Gabriel’s more violent incidents.

Gabriel gave a crabby grunt before making a plate of mirelurk eggs the captain had prepared for the morning meal, sloshing his own custom blend of diced tatos and raw meat onto the yellow-green eggs before sitting down. Jesse never asked what the meat was anymore.

The youth set a mug of coffee on the old picnic table before sliding on to the bench to sit across from him, adjusting the brim of his leather hat and smiling to try to mask his nervousness. “I see you’re gettin’ a late start. Sleep in, for once?”

 “No,” Gabriel snorted between bites.

 “Morning’s been quiet,” the captain reported as soldiers quietly filed out of the exits in the hopes of going unnoticed. “Nothin’ serious goin’ on so far. Wanna go huntin’ this afternoon? We’re runnin’ awful low on venison. I aligned my schedule with Tom’s so he’s coverin’ a little earlier than typical, so I’ll be available around two or so this afternoon if you’re interested.” Jesse was always trying to curb Gabriel’s bloodthirst and seemed willing and able to do just about anything to keep him from falling too deeply to the blade’s song. Jesse made a point to take his commander out on missions where the lieutenant could kill raiders or mutants or ferals or literally anything with the hopes that he wouldn’t bring it home, but even Jesse’s efforts occasionally failed.

“Maybe.”

“You seem sort’f distracted this mornin’,” Jesse hummed between sips of his own coffee. “What’s goin’ on?”

Gabriel sipped at his coffee. “I got a message from the Capital late last night.”

“Oh?” Jesse’s attention perked. “From who?”

“From someone claiming to be Morrison.”

“JACK?” Jesse blurted. “Holy shit, boss! That’s… But… I thought…”

Gabriel stared down in to his #1 Dad mug before taking a long swig. “Yeah. I know. So did I,” he huffed.

Jesse gnawed at his lip for a few seconds, gears turning under his stupid hat. “Do you think the rumors were wrong? Maybe faked?”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel grumbled. “Morrison, or whoever’s _claiming_ to be Morrison, said he managed to escape whatever happened and went MIA for a while. But now he’s back and suddenly feels remorse for shitting all over me.”

“Hmm… Did you message ‘im back?”

“Yes.”

“Heard nothin’ back since then, I presume?”

“No. Not yet. But I only replied this morning. He probably hasn’t even received my reply yet. E-mail isn’t exactly quick. Might have been faster to send a damn bird, honestly.”

“Well, shit… What’re yuh gonna do if it’s really him?”

“I don’t fucking KNOW!” Gabriel slammed a fist on the table hard enough to knock his mug over and spill the hot liquid on to the concrete floor. Jesse arched an eyebrow but didn’t seem distressed over the show of frustration. Gabriel sighed and ran a hand through the brown-black waves of hair on the top of his head, gripping a fistful as his irritation mounted while his skin bristled. “I don’t know, okay? Morrison’s supposed to be fucking DEAD!”

 _He is dead,_  the lurking thing rustled and clawed at the walls of his insides. Gabriel ignored it and that only succeeded to agitate it further.  _He’s dead and this being is a farce. You’re a fool to believe any of it, Gabriel. A fool._

 “Want me to make some calls?” Jesse offered. “If Morrison’s really alive, then someone’s gotta know about it. And if he’s back at his Capital base, I can definitely find out for sure.”

Gabriel snorted and sat back, folding his thick arms across his chest and glowering at the table to hide his eyes glazing over while the beast crawled and gnarled beneath his skin. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m still fucking pissed at him. I’m going make him in to a nice leather coat, if he really is actually alive.”

“Oh, com’on, boss… You don’t really mean that.”

“Like hell I don’t mean it,” Gabriel flashed his fangs but Jesse ignored the warning.

“I know it’s eatin’ you right up inside,” the captain shook his head, “bein’ this angry about what happened with the lieutenant.”

“ _Major._ ”

“Right—major. Strike Commander. Whatever ‘e’s goin’ by nowadays. The point I’m makin’ here is that if Morrison’s really alive that you owe it to yourself to sit down with ‘im and have a serious pow-wow about what happened. Might make yuh feel better?”

“I feel FINE,” Gabriel snarled.

“No, boss. You don’t. Now I know yuh hate hearin’ it, but you’ve been a damn mess since Jack left, and I think sayin’ as much is a brazen understatement, if I’m bein’ fully honest. You’ve been fallin’ to pieces ever since Morrison left us for some fancy new job in the Capital. Christ at a Sunday picnic, I ain’t never seen anyone so self-destructive.”

Gabriel’s nostrils flared as he glared ruddy holes at his third in command but Jesse didn’t even flinch, his brown eyes hardening to stare right back at his ornery commander. “It’s like you WANT me to kill you.”

“Jefe, listen to me, you’re the closest thing I got to a pa and I ain’t gonna let you destroy yourself if y’don’t have to. If Jack’s alive, he owes you one heck of an apology, sure, but you  _both_  owe one another a good, long chat.”

Gabriel snorted loudly. “I have nothing to say to him.”

“Holy shit. I do hope you’re just bein’ stubborn, ‘cause if you honestly think that, we need to be havin’ a whole other conversation.”

“How’s Stultz been doing?”

Jesse’s hard expression promptly crumpled. “Don’t change the subject.”

Gabriel slid his finger along the dipped ridges and curves of his blade while flashing a white-fanged smirk at the now scowling captain. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately,” he purred. “An  _awful_  lot.”

“I work with him,” Jesse defended. “It sort’f comes with the territory.”

“We both know that’s not what I’m talking about, boy.”

“NO,” Jesse jut a finger at him. “Stop that. We’re talkin’ ‘bout you here, boss, not me. And sure as heck not my friendship with Stultz.”

“What ever happened to Hanzo?” The name drop made the teenager’s face boil. “I thought you were in love with him or some stupid shit like that.”

“HEY!” Jesse squawked. “Don’t you bring my beautiful archer in to this, boss! I mean it!”

Gabriel hummed and tapped the tip of the artifact to his chin. “I bet he’s the jealous type.”

“Gabe…”

“What would he think if he knew you were cheating on him? And with a coworker? Scandalous.”

“GABE…”

“You know, it’s been a while since I spoke with Sojiro… Maybe I’ll send a bird out.”

“ _GABE_!” The brunette whined loudly and stretched his arms across the table. “DON’T YOU DARE!”

“I’ll go hunting with you.” Gabriel flashed a daring grin and stood while his captain pouted up at him from under his hat. Even with his broad size and all that facial hair, Jesse still managed to look like a total child sometimes. “But bring up Jack’s name again and I’ll be giving the Shimadas a call,” he warned.

“Y’r harsh, old man… Harsh ‘n cruel…”

Gabriel flipped him off and scratched at his back with the angry weapon, ignoring the shrills echoing off the chambers of his skull and sauntered towards the firing range to glower at the soldiers. It was becoming increasingly enjoyable to watch them squirm. He couldn’t hold the beast’s nature back forever.

Bloodshed seemed inevitable.

 

“Prove it?”

Gabriel had replied… He’d seen his message and actually replied… Holy shit.

The synth leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his grimy hair, already missing those glorious Institute showers. He’d known what to expect, the dirt and dust and rads, but Christ he felt gross. Less than two days out and his under-armor was already soaked in sweat. How did humans live up here like this, day in and day out?

He stared up at the damaged ceiling of his shack, thinking on the request for several minutes before scrounging together enough nerve to type a response.

> RE: RE: IT’S JACK.
> 
> Prove it? All right. Let’s see.
> 
> You keep insisting that salt’s not a spice and I’m pretty sure you’re full of crap. You put it in food to make it taste better. That’s literally what a spice is, Gabe.
> 
> You have a hilariously-endearing knitting hobby that you’re desperate to keep under-wraps. You always whined that you couldn’t find black yarn and had to practice with orange and pink because we found a huge stash of the stuff in some ruins outside Boston. You made me a scarf for Christmas four years ago and I wore it around camp when I managed to get really drunk and you nearly strangled me with the damn thing.
> 
> You wanted to open a diner where I was forced in to slave labor wearing skirts and roller skates. That was the night I shot you down because I panicked and pretty much ruined our friendship.
> 
> And then I promised to contact you but never really did because I’m a total ass and a coward.
> 
> Is that good enough?
> 
> -Jack

His finger hovered over Enter and 76 bit his lip before pressing it before he could chicken out. “Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed and groaned again. Dealing with something so deceptively menial was proving to be more exhausting than dealing with the Gunners.

Thus far, Gibraltar hadn’t been so terrible. His Gunner peers continued to study him for any sign that he was a replacement but came up with none. If they had, he had no doubt they’d have attempted to string him up but things had been smooth. Colonel Anderson had even permitted him to participate in a meeting with some of the higher-up Brotherhood members they’d been chatting with, knowing that Jack had been the initial person to work out the armistice. Jack wasn’t really much of a people-person but he’d been damn excellent at pretending to be. Between his falsified charisma and natural charm and good looks, Jack had practically been built for peace-talks, and 76 was arguably even more-so since he was genuinely better at the whole ‘talking’ thing.

Jack had always found the Brotherhood of Steel to be interesting and fairly easy to deal with. They were a military organization after all, not all that different from the Gunners, with the exception that the Brotherhood ran on more ethics and had higher moral standards. They were less mercenaries and more of a genuine military presence. Jack had many times considered joining their ranks and going straight but deemed himself too tainted by his personal history to be very successful there. 76 wasn’t so concerned about that part. Maybe he’d apply someday. The Institute had shown interest in the faction, mainly due to the Brotherhood’s fondness of collecting and reviving old-world technology, so he could probably find a valid excuse to worm his way in.

76 was due to have another meeting with the Brotherhood at 0700 the following morning, this time with Paladin Reinhart. Reinhardt had actually been the first Brotherhood soldier that Jack had managed to befriend. He’d even taken the Strike Commander with him on a tour of the Brotherhood’s base of operations, an impressive fortification known as The Citadel. It had been there that they’d signed the cease-fire and promised to leave one another’s operations in peace, unless it caused any direct conflicts, in which case they agreed to meet and discuss things amicably.

76 remembered Reinhardt to be massive, handsome, jovial, intelligent, a devoted soldier, and a hard drinker. They’d gone to a bar together the first time they’d met. Reinhardt had no idea that Jack had been practically impervious to getting drunk and had challenged him to a drinking contest and had very nearly won. Jack fessed it up to the man’s enormous size (he was practically a behemoth) but had been still more than just a little impressed by how well Reinhardt held his liquor. It was rare for Jack to make a friend and they’d genuinely enjoyed one another’s company, even though Reinhardt had scolded him for being a “boring hardass.”

76 was looking forward to meeting the guy for himself. Jack had judged Reinhardt as trustworthy and dependable, traits that were definitely rare and in high demand nowadays. 76 hoped he’d never get tasked with killing the guy. Not only did he figure it would be a challenge (not even he was pressed to fight someone so large) but the synth would probably like him.

It was already 0100 and though 76 wasn’t sleepy, he was worn out from the many meetings and the mentally strenuous task it was to simultaneously keep his eye out for signs of foul play while collecting data to send to Dr. Zimmer and catching up with Jack’s old troops. But before he could get ready for a few hours’ shuteye on his dingy cot, he had one last thing to do.

He’d received a bird a few hours ago from the Commonwealth, from TP-97—Tom—and he needed to reply so as not to come across as disregarding his duties. He’d promised to check in with the Courser but hadn’t yet, too preoccupied with everything else going on to have found the time, but he couldn’t ignore him now.

The lieutenant pulled a strip of paper out to write him back.

>  Tom,
> 
> I’m going to get the elephant out of the room and tell you that finding out that you’d been a synth virtually the entire time and that you’ve been poisoning Gabe was unsettling, to say the least. To be frank, you’re lucky I don’t find an excuse to put a bullet in that red head of yours. That being said, I’d like us to work together. For real this time. We have a common goal to save Gabriel/Reaper, and I fully intend to get the job done.
> 
> I’ll be returning to Blackwatch ASAP, assuming things go well with Gabe. Keep him alive until then. I’m counting on you.
> 
> Additionally, if you ever wish to be candid about your duties or concerns, feel free to be open with me. I won’t report you. I know that must come across as a bit of a lure but I assure you that it’s not. I’m only cooperating with these people because they can save Gabe. If he dies, I’m out of here, one way or another. But if you want to keep things professional, I’ll certainly understand. Just a little food for thought.
> 
> Your friend,
> 
> SS-76/Jack

He tied the note with the blue strings they used to signal it was authentic before jogging from his bunk down the wooden ladder and heading towards where they kept the mail-birds. He handed the note off to a conscript, whom 76 made idle chat with while he watched her take one of the trained ravens and attach the note to before sending it off. He didn’t recognize her. She told him that she was a new recruit and was training as a combat medic, and that she had three sisters and two brothers. Her name was Lydia and she smoldered at him with her bright hazel eyes before he said goodnight, leaving an unspoken invitation that the synth wouldn’t be answering.

Once back to his quarters, he locked the door and dressed down for the night before rolling on to his cot and closing his eyes, his mind aflutter with a mix of duties and expectations and anxieties. But even with the swirling thoughts, 76’s brain shut itself down and he blacked out.

 

It was gloomy and cold, his surroundings blurred on the edges. He was standing in a small room with metal chambers lined up across from one another, all but one closed. 76 rubbed his eyes and looked around, waving a hand through thick fog that was pouring from the open compartment and had pooled in a chilling pall along the floor. The only lights were dim emergency lamps running along the ceiling, but they barely managed to illuminate the room through the fog, even with his enhanced vision. 76 found himself standing in front of the opened chamber. The closed chamber across from him had blood splattered against the frosted glass, making it impossible to see inside.

What the hell was this? Where was he?

He glanced around the rectangular room for any signs of life but found none. “Hello?” his voice echoed off the empty walls. “Is anyone there?” No response. By habit, the synth dropped his hand to where his visor was usually clasped, only to find it missing. Now uncertain how to proceed and feeling disoriented by the silent and empty ambience around him, 76 gripped the sides of the opened chamber and leaned in for a glance inside, hoping to find something of interest but only finding an old leather seat.

The hair stuck straight up on his neck when he felt the cold mouth of a pistol hovering over the skin. “Move and I’ll blow your head off.”

76 put his hands in to the air. “Who are you?”

“I’d say that you’re in no place to be asking questions,” the smooth voice warned. “Turn around—slowly. Try anything cute and regret it.”

76 complied, keeping his gloved hands in the air as he slowly turned to face the barrel. He nearly choked on a gasp at the sight of a younger blonde glowering him down with a pair of bright, furious, frozen eyes framed by dark bruising, weighed down by that same empty vastness that Jack had seen in the mirror virtually every day since the serum hit his veins. The stranger was dressed in the same black uniform that 76 had seen in the old-world SEP photographs, his face cross but still unquestionably beautiful. “Washington? Nathaniel Washington?”

The blonde flashed a devilish grin just like Jack remembered Gabriel having, making the synth’s insides knot up. In the dim light, dressed in all black and with the flood lights shining off those luminous, crystalline eyes and washing out his already pallid skin, he resembled some sort ice demon. “Nate,” he corrected. 76 remembered reading the alias in Washington’s profile. “I go by Nate. What’s your name?”

“Jack. Jack Morrison. Gunner Major.”

“No. What’s your real name?” Nate cocked the pistol. “Your designation?”

76 felt the blood drain from his face. “SS-76. People call me 76.”

“76. Good. Thank you for being honest, 76.”

“No problem. Nate, I don’t know what’s going on or how the hell I got here or where here even is, but how about you put the gun down and we talk this over?”

“Talk,” Nate tilted his pretty head but didn’t shift from his aggressive posture, his 10mm remaining level with 76’s eyes. “All right, synth, how about we talk? Let’s fucking _talk_. Your organization infiltrated Vault 111 to murder my wife and kidnap my only child, and then promptly turned him in to a science experiment before they fucking brainwashed him. And then, for whatever stupid reason, you chose to leave me alive after killing everyone else here. Big mistake.”

76 darted his eyes around before settling them back on Nate’s deceptively angelic face. If they were in a vault, they were deep underground. Escape wasn’t going to be so simple.

“Oh, right—and then they made _you_ ,” Nate waved the gun at the synth. “So, here’s what’s going to happen, 76: I’m going to spill your brains on the wall just like they did to my wife, and then I’m going to hunt down each and every one of your kidnapper coworkers and rip them apart until there’s nothing left. How about that?”

“It’s understandable that you’d be angry,” 76 spoke calmly, “but there’s no reason to resort to violence. Let’s just calm down and figure this out. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

Nate burst in to a bitter, caustic laugh. “I’d say that my wife’s corpse is a pretty good reason to resort to violence,” he snarled.

“I didn’t hurt your wife.”

“No. You didn’t.” Nate’s cobalt eyes dimmed dangerously. “You’re just an abomination that has to be put down.”

The synth lunged when the gun went off, snatching Nate’s hand and the pair struggled as the shots fired in to the air, bursting overhead pipes and blanketing the sparring soldiers with more mist. 76 was stunned at how strong and fast Nate was for a human, unaccustomed to legitimate challenge. Neither soldier missed a beat until 76 managed to get a hold of Nate’s arm, wrenching it back and forcing him to drop the gun. The pair tumbled to the floor in an entangled mess of muscle and limbs, both grunting and cursing and grabbing and punching. But 76 hadn’t been prepared for Nate’s strange grace, and it didn’t take long for the old-world soldier to end up on top of him, pinning the synth’s thighs to the floor with his knees. Nate’s lean hands clasped firmly around the larger man’s throat to cut off his air. 76 couldn’t easily suffocate but Nate was threatening to snap his neck, his grip gradually tightening as he leered over him, those perfect cobalt eyes wide and wild. 76 thrashed and clawed but he was no match. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“So now you see,” Nate growled silkily in to his ear, “that I am going to kill you.”

 

76 wheezed as he was thrust back into reality, staring up at the ceiling of his little shack. He gripped at his neck while his breath returned to his burning lungs, still able to feel the cool chill of the vault and the terror from those brutal eyes gazing through him.

It was just a dream. His first dream, and it was a god damn nightmare.

He didn’t honestly know anything concrete about Nate’s temperament. The character he’d encountered in his nightmare was likely nothing close to what he could expect if Nate were to actually awaken, but 76 couldn’t help but feel a heavy pang of anxiety beginning to settle in his belly at the looming prospect of having to face him someday. Nate was younger and less experienced than Jack, but there was something about him… Those eyes… Those beautiful, snowy, ferocious eyes… They held something that Jack’s hadn’t: an absolute, unyielding resolve. Nathaniel Washington wasn’t self-conscious. He knew exactly what he was and what he was capable of. He knew what he wanted and wouldn’t hesitate to take it. He wasn’t scared of anything, and he’d never stop hunting them all down, one by one.

76 ran his hands over his face before standing to get dressed for the day, shoving the nightmare to the back of his mind and trying to focus on the day ahead. He had to meet with the Brotherhood and straighten out whatever mess Jack left behind before performing the rest of his duties. Mostly meetings, but he bad a possible strike on a raider camp coming up that he needed to prepare for as well.

The synth took then time to properly strap on his armor before sitting at his desk to check his e-mails, his stomach fluttering when he saw a new one from Gabe waiting for him.

> RE: RE: RE: IT’S JACK.
> 
> I fucking hate you so much, you higher-than-thou male-model boyscout piece of shit.
> 
> Come home.
> 
> -Reyes

76 chewed on his lip while trying to decipher the message. Gabriel was sarcastic by nature and 76 needed to be careful not to take everything the lieutenant said too seriously.

> RE: RE: RE: RE: IT’S JACK.
> 
> Are you really asking me to come back? Or was that meant to be a particularly bitter dose of sarcasm?
> 
> -Jack

Sent.

Once recovered from his swollen levels of anxiety, the synth jogged from his quarters and crossed the wooden bridge to head towards the large meeting tent, ever-punctual and with a front that didn’t betray the thoughts clouding his mind.

“Jackie!”

“Wh— _OOF_!” 76 grunted when he was snatched up in to a rib-crushing embrace, his face pressed against a T-60 breastplate. “Reinhardt?” he choked against the metal.

“Jackie!” the paladin boomed, still holding him a solid foot in the air and swinging 76’s legs around like a rag doll. Reinhardt even larger than Jack remembered him to be. His arms had to be as wide as the synth’s waist was thick. “I missed you, my friend! How have you been? I’d heard that you’d been killed!” he laughed and dropped 76 to the ground, sniggering while watching the smaller man regain his footing. Reinhardt slapped his enormous steel hand to 76’s back with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. “I told them that was absolutely impossible! That you were way too good of a soldier to be killed by some simple mutants! But no one ever listens to Reinhardt! Let me take a look at you!”

“I‘m alive,” 76 confirmed and did a little twirl before bowing, sending the paladin in to another boisterous fit of laughter. “Got a couple of new scars but I’m otherwise unscathed.”

“You look excellent, my friend! Right as a summer rain! And I like the new outfit! Very nice!”

“Thank you,” 76 chuckled, unable to keep himself from it so close to the blonde giant’s jolly personality. “I’m glad to see you again, Paladin.”

Reinhardt was as boisterous as he was giant, and as friendly as he was handsome. He was in his mid-thirties or early forties, burly and with a head of blonde, shoulder-length hair. His eyes shone a friendly, steel-blue, though the left eye was milkier than the right due to a deep and fairly fresh scar.

“No need to be so formal, Jackie-boy! We’re friends! Rein’s fine,” he beamed a smile and motioned for the commander to take a seat at the meeting table. “Please! This is your camp. You take the first chair, my friend.”

“What happened to your eye?” 76 questioned and sat down.

Reinhardt barely fit in the oversized metal chair they’d prepared for him, and his armored legs wouldn’t fit under the solid oak table. The result was a little awkward but he didn’t seem to mind it, likely habituated to the situation being the size that he was. “Ah, nothing to worry your head about, friend. Just some simple battle damage. We were attacked by hostiles attempting to take our camp. Likely trying to steal our power armor and power cell supplies. We managed to fight them off but at great losses. My commander perished in the conflict, I’m sorry to say. But he died in glory and with honor, as well as any Brotherhood soldier could ask for, and I’m going to do my best to see to it that he’s properly recognized for his valiance.”

“Wow… I’m…sorry to hear that. It must have been quite the attack to be of such a threat to the Brotherhood.”

“It was a monster of a mess,” the paladin sighed. “We got caught with our pants at the knees because it was a new station and we were still setting our defenses up,” he explained. “But…that’s in the past now. I’m glad to see you well, Jack! I was quite upset when I’d gotten word that you’d been killed during that operation. It’s not like you to be so brash!”

“Yeah, I know,” 76 smiled a bit shyly. “It sort of got…out of hand. But I’m back. At least for now. I’m actually considering early retirement.”

“Retirement?” Reinhardt guffawed. “YOU? HAH! That’s hilarious!”

“I know. It sounds crazy to say aloud, honestly. But…after being taken hostage, I had time to think and some things got put in to perspective. I’m looking to patch a relationship up with some old friends and maybe settle down a bit.”

“Wow… So you’re serious, then?”

“Yeah. But don’t go spreading that yet,” 76 smirked. “It’s just between us, all right?”

“Of course, Jackie!  Between comrades in arms! I get it,” Reinhardt winked his good eye. “Your secret’s safe with me!”

“Not with that loud mouth, it’s not,” the synth chuckled.

“I can’t help it! Am I not allowed to be excited to see my only friend in the Gunners?”

76 smiled clumsily, blonde brows tilting. “Things get that bad after I was taken?”

“Yes, quite,” Reinhardt exhaled. “The Gunners keep their word only as well as their commanders. And without your moral compass to guide them, things quickly began to unravel. I did my best to keep everyone from pulling triggers, but you know how soldiers get when on edge. One side starts spitting venom and the other curls their lip, and before you know it, both are biting at the grit to tear one another to pieces.”

76 hummed considerately and picked up the paperwork laid out on the table to scroll through the reports. “It says here that a group of Brotherhood soldiers were seen sniffing around a Gunner camp about fifteen miles west and that they undermined the contracts by neglecting to contact the acting Commander about their presence. Sort of puts your people in a poor light, Rein.”

“Now they were only doing that because some Brotherhood storehouses were missing some ammunition stockpiles and Gunners had been seen loitering near the place not long before,” Reinhardt defended.

“Did the Gunners report their presence?”

“Well yes,” Reinhart admitted, “but you know those reports are about as reliable as a wet blanket!”

“Now, now,” 76 set the papers down. “No reason to get on edge. We’re just talking.”

“I’m not on edge! I’m only speaking the truth!”

“It’s not like my soldiers to steal.”

Reinhardt snorted and rolled his eyes. “Jackie, I shall be frank with you: Gunners are opportunists. I’m not blaming anyone for anything, but the truth of the matter is that Gunners will take what they want when they believe there’s something to be gained for little energy and materials exchanged on their end. They won’t waste a bullet but they’ll sure as hell snatch one from your gun, given the chance. No offense, Jack, but this crew is stingy.”

“We don’t steal,” 76 glowered, gritty voice falling seriously.

“I believe that YOU don’t steal. I’d never think you to be a thief, Jackie. Not in a thousand years! It isn’t in you! But the Gunners? Maybe not THESE Gunners that you’ve worked with and trained personally, but as a whole, they’re mostly thieves and bullies.”

“Paladin, with all due respect, the Brotherhood isn’t exactly perfect.”

“I never said that we were!”

“Reinhardt, I give you my word that there will be a full and thorough investigation of your allegations,” 76 swore. “Should any of my men or other Gunners be found responsible, they’ll be turned over to face punishment as the Brotherhood deems appropriate. But you must swear to me that you will do whatever you can to keep this armistice firm. If either side breaks it, it would lead to war.”

“War that the Gunners would lose,” the giant grunted.

“Yes.” His agreement must have surprised Reinhardt because the large man shut his mouth and balked down at him. “The Gunners stand no chance against the Brotherhood of Steel. That much is clear. The Brotherhood has the numbers and force and weapons to wipe us off the Capital map. But that’s a lot of bodies, Paladin, and I’m not willing to make such an easy exchange of blood. Are you?”

“No,” Reinhardt released a heavy sigh. “No, I don’t want that, either.”

“Then please do what you can to keep your men away from Gunner operations, and I’ll do the same on my end.”

“Of course, Jackie. I’m trying my hardest to do so already!”

“I’m sure you are, Paladin, but we both must simply try harder. Lives are at stake here. Not all Gunners are thieves.”

Reinhardt winced and ran a gloved hand through his hair before rubbing at his neck. “I’m sorry, Jackie. I didn’t mean to soil the air,” he apologized. “I guess I’m just… It’s been very frustrating, with you being gone. These mercenaries that you work with, they’re not the same as you. And if you were to leave again… Well, I’m not certain how long this peace will last…”

“I’m going to talk to the Gunner leadership,” 76 nodded. “See if I can convince them to see things my way and get them to back off.”

Reinhardt eyed him warily. “And if you can’t?”

“Then I’m counting on you to keep the inevitable bloodshed to a minimum. I need you to talk to your Elder and get him to back off.”

“Elder Lyons is a hard man and he doesn’t care for Gunners or their sketchy operations. Putting my neck out for your soldiers could risk both my honor and my position in the Brotherhood.”

“I know that I’m asking a lot of you, Rein, but if anyone can get through to Elder Lyons, it’s you. He’s a reasonable man, but I don’t think that he’ll listen to a Gunner. He needs one of his own, one of his most trusted, to stand up to him.”

“Very well,” Reinhardt sighed. “I’ll see what strings I can pull. But this is just for you, Jackie! You’re the only soul I trust in this camp or any other like it.”

“I don’t know. I think that you’d like Blackwatch,” 76 smirked. “Other Gunner ops in the Commonwealth are morally questionable, at best, but Blackwatch operates closer to the Brotherhood’s standards. At least that’s how it was when I was there. I honestly think that you’d have fit right in.”

“Perhaps I might have. Oh! That reminds me! You must meet my new initiate! I do believe you know her, actually,” Reinhardt smiled and leaned back. “Initiate Pharah! Get y’r skinny keester in here!”

“Yes sir, Paladin Reinhardt, sir!” A young girl marched in to the tent, hand at her temple in a crisp salute. She was small and thin, all long-limbs and wide feet like she were in the middle of a growth spurt. She wore a coat with a red scarf and small cap. Her shoulder-length hair was a pretty shade of dark brown, and two small braids framed a pair of cat-shaped eyes so dark that they were nearly black.

“FAREEHA?” 76 yelped.

Fareeha Amari was the daughter of Ana Amari, Jack and Gabriel’s old friend from before SEP. Ana had befriended them briefly before they’d been inducted in to the program and had promptly bailed before things “got out of hand,” as she put it. She’d actually just given birth to Fareeha in Diamond City a few months before and had returned to duty, only to encounter Moira not long after that. As a new mother, Amari wasn’t willing to put her life at risk and had decided early retirement to be necessary. Neither Jack nor Gabe blamed her, and they made a point to visit her and Fareeha when they could. They’d adored Ana and her daughter, always eager to spoil little Fareeha, and the synth couldn’t easily suppress the same love from blossoming at the sight of those familiar eyes. The last time Jack had seen her, she was no older than five or six years old.

But what the actual hell was Fareeha doing here? There was no way that Ana would have approved of her daughter joining the Brotherhood of Steel, especially not at this age. She couldn’t be any older than fourteen. 76 could feel Jack’s fatherly instincts flower in his chest and it took nearly all of his self-control to keep from leaping up and yelling at the child to return home.

The girl dart her dark eyes between her smiling commander and the smaller blonde. “Do I know you, sir?”

Reinhardt snickered and swept a large hand between them. “Gunner Major Jack Morrison, meet Brotherhood Initiate Fareeha Amari.”

“JACK?” she blinked. “Uncle Jackie?”

76’s heart nearly burst in his chest. “That would be me, I guess.”

Fareeha’s heart shaped face lit up and she rushed him, her hat falling to the floor when she leapt in to his lap to hug his neck. “Uncle Jackie! Oh my god! I haven’t seen you in so long!”

76 embraced her small frame as though she was made of glass and smiled in to her hair, his heart fluttering in his chest. Shit. “What are you doing here?” he finally asked after a few minutes of hugs.

The girl sat back and pressed her lips together before looking away. “I ran away,” she grumbled. “Mother didn’t want me to join the military.”

“Since when does the Brotherhood accept children in their ranks?” Jack spat.

“Since we were established,” the giant shrugged. “Squires are important members of our ranks. Fareeha joined as one about a year ago and recently graduated to Initiate. She’s been under my care since. She’s still in her squire garb but we’re working on getting’ the little lady some proper field armor. She just keeps on growing! It won’t be very long before she can fit in her own T-51!” he cackled.

“I’m going to become a Knight and protect The Citadel!” Fareeha puffed. The girl hopped off of Jack’s lap to scoop her hat off the floor. “Mom doesn’t like it but too bad.”

Jack arched an eyebrow up at Reinhardt. “Does Ana even know that she’s here?”

“Yes, she knows. She comes out regularly to check on the little one. I rather like her a lot, actually. That Ana’s quite a firecracker! What a lovely woman! I fear the Amari ladies don’t see eye-to-eye on everything,” the giant chuckled and pat the scowling girl’s head with his enormous glove, “but young Fareeha’s old enough to make her own choices. She’s not stupid, this one. She’s one of my best students, actually.”

“She’s a child soldier,” Jack vied. “This is unbelievable! Even the Gunners don’t use kids!”

“I’d never put her in a situation she couldn’t handle, Jackie,” Reinhardt pressed back. “Fareeha’s a capable warrior and she’s not going in to any battles just yet. She’s watching. Learning. Training. I’m not about to put such a young life at risk.”

“You brought her to a Gunner camp that you openly admitted to not trusting.”

Reinhardt opened his mouth but promptly shut it.

“You’re not my _dad_ , Commander,” the girl snorted, lifting her chin in a raw sort of defiance that Jack rarely saw even in his more experienced soldiers. “And even if you were, I’d tell you to stuff it. I’m strong enough to make the trip from Diamond City all the way out here, and smart enough to do it without my mother being able to track me down for half a year. I think that makes me fully capable of making some decisions regarding my own future. I want to be in the Brotherhood. I want to make a difference in the world. And not you or mom or anything else is going to stop me, but I dare you to try.”

Jack raised both brows as Reinhardt burst in to laughter.

“Spunky, ain’t she?”

“She gets it from her mother,” he grumbled before sitting back, his mood souring. “I don’t agree that children should wage wars, but I guess she makes a valid point. It’s her life, and we don’t all live long ones out here. You keep her safe, Reinhardt.” 76’s blue eyes burned at the grinning paladin. “If anything, ANYTHING, happens to her, I’ll personally hunt you down.”

“Of course, Strike Commander,” Reinhardt bowed his head. “You have my word that no harm shall befall young Amari so long as I live and breathe.”

“See to it that it doesn’t.” Jack stood and held out a hand. “It was good to see you again, Paladin. I hope our alliance remains firm.”

Reinhardt smiled and shook it, keeping his grip mild by habit of dealing with less powerful men. “Same to you, Morrison. Come, little one,” the Paladin grunted as he stood to his full height, nearly tall enough to knock down the aluminum tent pole. “Let’s get your soft little body in to some combat armor before Jackie cracks me open like a can of Cram!”

Fareeha stuck her tongue out at her synthetic uncle before she winked and strode out after the behemoth, leaving 76 with his paperwork and a head of angry opinions. At least she was safe in Reinhardt’s care. Better than her joining the Gunners, at the very least.

76 reported the meeting results to the Colonel and proceeded about his day, grabbing some breakfast before inspecting the troops and heading off to more meetings and then discussing strategy with Bice. By the time all of that was finished, it was supper time, which Bice spent dragging him around to meet new recruits and watch them get drunk for two solid hours. They sang and danced to the radio and exchanged stories, eagerly burning off energy now that they were off for the night. It was nice to spend some quality time with the soldiers, and 76 received numerous complements at how glad they were that he was ‘loosening up’. Jack had spent time with them but had never been particularly good at it, while 76 made an effort to at least be friendly with them.

Once the last soldier had been guided off to their bunk, the synth made his way towards his own, dropping his weight in to his chair and staring up at the ceiling, mentally drained by the day’s revelations and activities.

Half an hour of brain-silence later and he was ready to check his mail again.

Per usual, 76 investigated his desk and room and terminal for signs of tinkering or bugging before turning the machine on. The dark screen flickered to life, and he wiped some dirt off with a sleeve before tossing his armor onto his cot to put away later while the terminal hummed and brought up his messages. Sure enough, a new e-mail from Gabriel was waiting for him.

76 exhaled and rolled his shoulders, working himself up to opening it before clicking and waiting for the neon green letters to finish rolling across the murky backdrop.

> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: IT’S JACK.
> 
> Yes, you idiot. I was being serious.
> 
> Drop the Capital City trash and come back to Blackwatch.
> 
> -Reyes

_Come back to Blackwatch,_ the words emboldened themselves in his mind, stomping down any of Jack’s lingering insecurities. Gabriel wanted him back—he wanted _Jack_ back. After everything that Jack had done to him, Gabe was willing to just openly invite him to return to Blackwatch.

Shit. This was rushing the plan ahead four or five steps. 76 had assumed it would take weeks or months to regain Gabriel’s trust to get to this point, if ever. But only a few days in and the lieutenant was practically begging him to return.

76 still had to deal with making sure the Brotherhood didn’t storm his walls, and had already made promises to Zimmer to hand him some Gunner information he’d yet to put together. He couldn’t just up and leave, even for Gabriel, though he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want to. Every one of Jack’s copied cells were quivering at the prospect of seeing him again, buzzing in his head and shouting for him to leave right then and there. But the synth had responsibilities. He was a professional. And the best way to ensure that the Institute would have his back and that Gabriel would survive this…whatever was going on with him…was to complete his duties as assigned.

He buried his face in his hands, giving himself a few minutes to reign in Jack’s emotions before his mind settled enough for him to type a reply.

> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: IT’S JACK.
> 
> You know what? Screw the Gunners. I should never have come back after being ‘KIA’.
> 
> I have some things that I promised to take care of, but I’ll plan to put in my official retirement papers tomorrow and head your way this weekend.
> 
> I won’t be able to operate as a merc in Gunner territory but there’s nothing stopping me from helping you as a civ. It’s not like they’d try to stop me from supporting them for free, anyways. Christ knows they pay me well enough.
> 
> See you soon, Reyes.
> 
> -Jack

It was time to return to Blackwatch.

It was time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 76 FINALLY gets to Blackwatch next chapter! UGH, I had every intention of him getting back THIS chapter, but it ran a little long.  
> I’d very seriously considered aging Brigitte up so she’d be able to be Reinhardt’s squire, but she’s only around 5 at the moment, so Fareeha’s his trainee for now. And yes, Torbjörn is in the Brotherhood. He just mounts turrets on every wall of The Citadel. God help us. Danse will eventually encounter them all while working his scrap stand in Rivet City and get recruited, but we have a few years before that. Ana will make an appearance later, also.  
> Just to put time in to perspective, Arthur Maxson would have just been born the year prior. It’ll be another 15 years before he becomes Elder, so Brotherhood characters like Reinhardt and Fareeha will see his rise to power and will have to make calls on how they feel about the direction the Brotherhood begins to take. 
> 
> Sorry this chapter went up so late :( Work’s been busy.  
> The next chapter will be a bit shorter, probably, since it was meant to be a part of this one.


	11. Back to Blackwatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 76 returns to Blackwatch and faces what’s become of Gabriel.

> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: IT’S JACK.
> 
> A year and a half after walking out on me and being too stubborn to even send me as much as a single god damn bird, and you’re willing to just drop everything you worked for and come back home? Are you being fucking serious with me right now, Morrison?
> 
> -Reyes

> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: IT’S JACK.
> 
> Of course I’m being serious. We both know that I have no sense of humor.
> 
> -Jack

> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: IT’S JACK.
> 
> Okay. I almost laughed at that.
> 
> I’m still pretty fucking pissed with you. You’ll honestly be lucky if I don’t skin you alive. I bet that porcelain hide of yours would make one hell of a lampshade.
> 
> -Reyes
> 
> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: IT’S JACK.
> 
> Wow. Someone’s…salty.
> 
> So...do I still have a bunk, or are you relegating me to sleep with the conscripts?
> 
> -Jack
> 
> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: IT’S JACK.
> 
> All right. That’s it. I’m actually going to have to kill you now.
> 
> We’ll see about the bed situation. I might just stick you with Stultz for now, if you actually have the guts to show up at all. He got your old quarters, obviously. Still looks the damn same. You really know how to pick matching OCD neat-freak weirdos, Morrison.
> 
> You have a week to get here or the offer expires.
> 
> This is your ONE and ONLY chance, boyscout. Don’t fuck it up.
> 
> -Reyes

76 had no plans to fuck it up.

He’d filed his retirement papers to a very disappointed Colonel Anderson. She’d done her best to convince the doppelganger to stay, none too eager at the prospect of losing her bright-eyed Strike Commander for a second time, but 76 kept firm. He expressed that he’d hoped his desire to keep out of mercenary work had just been a side-effect from his near-death experience but had discovered otherwise nearly immediately upon his return to Gibraltar. “ _I need to fix things with Reyes,”_ he’d said. “ _I need to go back._ ” And she’d signed off on his papers. The Colonel wasn’t an unfair personality and she’d understood 76’s desire to go home. He’d even been officially permitted to work at Blackwatch as a civilian—unpaid, of course, but he was fine with that. It wasn’t like he had any real need for caps; he’d inherited all of Jack’s things, including the caps and investments he’d left behind, which totaled to…well…a lot. 76 wasn’t even sure what to do with it all.

During the last week, the spy had managed to gather enough intelligence on the Gunners to send back to Zimmer to satisfy the scientist’s needs, and Moira was in contact with Stultz regarding the plans to continue Gabriel’s treatment once 76 arrived. It was surprising how nearly all of his ducks were falling in row, especially considering the quick turn-around of his duties in the Capital, but 76 wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was ready to save Gabriel.

“We’re going to miss you, Commander.”

“I’m not your C.O. anymore, Bice,” 76 smirked down at his escort. Bice had been assigned to lead the blonde off the premises, and 76 had been genuinely surprised at how many of Jack’s peers had shown up to give him a sendoff. There’d been plenty of hooting and hollering and pleading for him to stay at the Capital, along with offers of some ammunition and other gear that he knew was a legitimate show of respect and affection from the people Jack had once worked so closely with. Gunners could be bullies and monsters, but they could apparently be friends, too.

It was for the best that they’d never know that Jack Morrison was dead.

“Yeah, I know you’re not my boss anymore,” the brunette grinned as they came to a stop just outside the gate, being watched by a handful of other Gunners, “but you’re pretty much always going to be the Strike Commander. I’d follow you in to battle any day. If you ever need anyone to march to the Commonwealth and save your ass, you can always count on me.”

“Thanks, John,” 76 smiled back and nodded. “I appreciate that. But that’s a long trek just to come lend a hand to an ex-coworker.”

“Don’t be so modest, Morrison. If I called you for literally anything, you’d drop everything to come out here for any one of us,” Bice winked and punched him in the shoulder.

76 pretended that it actually hurt and rubbed his arm, earning a laugh from his friend. “I guess that you’ve got me there. Good luck, Bice.” He held out a hand and the Gunner beamed and shook it firmly. “Give Donna my thanks. Her brahmin pies saved my butt the other night. Pete can’t cook worth a shit.”

“No he cannot!” Bice sniggered. “Good luck, Jackie. And never forget that you can’t merc in Gunner turf now!” he winked and shot a playful finger-gun while backing up through the gates. “Or we’ll have to kill yuh!”

“I won’t forget,” 76 chuckled. “Goodbye, John.”

“Bye, Jack. See yuh around!”

The blonde stepped several feet back to avoid the broad swing of the gates as they closed. He waved back at Jack’s old peers, smirking to himself once the gates had locked, before turning to begin the long walk towards the border. In just a few days, he’d be stepping on to Blackwatch soil and beginning the next phase of his life.

Neither 76 nor Jack had ever been so eager or so terrified.

 

Souls were strange things; strange and beautiful and nutritious things. Gabriel could see them only sometimes, their flickering lights shimmering at people’s cores or in their skulls, depending on the person. They were different colors and textures and pulsed at different speeds, but all of them whispered to him and all of them could be consumed. No soul tasted the same but all were innately and unbelievably satisfying.

The lurking thing within him had instructed Gabriel on the few techniques of how to handle and harvest souls. Souls could be utilized to rapidly recover from any sustained injuries but lately it had become a habit based simply on the rush it brought. The sweep of sweetness and the high of the energy flooding his cells was intoxicating, and Gabriel couldn’t seem to get enough of it.

Like any true junkie, at first he’d made excuses for it, but he’d finally given in and just accepted that he had a problem. It was an addiction, and one that was becoming increasingly challenging to satisfy. One soul a month had become one a week, and then one a day, and now he was beginning to feel as though he’d fall off an invisible precipice if he didn’t get at least ten a week. There were at least always good reasons to kill on the battlefield and he’d made due with what he could get, absorbing the dying lights when his soldiers were otherwise preoccupied and he could do so unnoticed.

He suspected that Jesse was on to him, but what the hell was the kid going to think or say? “ _Hey, boss? Are you eating souls?”_   Yeah. No. Jesse would never bring something that ridiculous up without concrete evidence, which he’d never have. Gabriel would always have the upper-hand with the subject as it would be easily dismissed as preposterous. Still, the young cowboy’s curiosity and natural detective eye had Gabriel on edge. He needed to be careful.

Jesse’s soul was like a walking fire, a tall pyre of hot reds and oranges that crackled around his body.

Tom’s was a pale, almost white shade of green in a halo around his head that Gabriel could only barely make out most of the time. He’d seen halos like Tom’s before but most people didn’t have them. He didn’t know why, and neither did the beast in his bones, though the lurking monster seemed to find it unappealing and bothersome. He’d instructed Gabriel to avoid consuming these souls, claiming they were likely weaker than the others, but Gabriel wasn’t completely convinced.

Jack’s soul was a halo, but it was the most beautiful and bright that he’d ever seen.

Most of the time, Gabriel couldn’t truly see souls. They were blurry or on the edge of his vision, like trying to make something out in the corner of the eye. But Jack’s soul was a fucking lighthouse in the dark, shining a beam and cutting through the evening’s violets and purples like a moving sun. Gabriel didn’t have to be told that it was Jack to know that it was him; he could feel it. His nanites vibrated in his blood, shivering until his blood had become an eager and anxious froth as he watched the light move through the ragged trees.

“I think I see someone,” Jesse confirmed. The teenager was standing on the elevated guard post at their gate, night-vision binoculars to his eyes. Stultz stood at the other side, raising his sniper rifle to check the sights. “He ain’t wearin the blue coat, though. Think it’s him?”

“It’s him,” Gabriel hummed expectantly.

“Agreed,” Tom concurred. “It’s Jack. Open the gate!” he motioned at an initiate and leapt down before Gabriel could even open his mouth. The red-head rushed out ahead of him and Gabriel yelped before taking chase, Jesse whining and dropping down to scramble behind. “Jack!” Tom embraced the approaching figure and the other pair of Gunners came to a stop to watch the men laugh and hug.

Gabriel had never seen his second in command so enthusiastic before. The guy was made up of all awkward smiles and stiff personality, but Stultz had been close friends with Jack and had taken it hard when word had floated to Blackwatch that Jack had died. He seemed about as pleased that the news was false as Gabriel was—just maybe a little less gay. Maybe? Gabriel really couldn’t get a good read on him.

 _That is not Jack Morrison,_ the beast rumbled and smogged on the skirts of his vision. _It is a farce. An illusion. A shadow to fool you._

 _“How the hell would you know that? You never even met Jack,”_ Gabriel replied internally, his eyes unmoving from their intense study of Jack’s movements. He was wearing strange clothing, but he’d said he’d gotten some new threads so it wasn’t a huge surprise. Jack looked the same, though maybe a bit more at ease with himself; more confident. Maybe some time away from Blackwatch had done him some actual good after all, though Gabriel would never admit that aloud.

_I simply know._

_“Wow. Well, forgive me for not running with your moving evidence.”_

_Proceed with caution, Gabriel._

_“That I will be doing,”_ he snorted before taking two long strides until he was right in Jack’s beautiful glowing fucking face. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jack was so beautiful. And bright. So fucking BRIGHT. A halo of white and gold glistened in and out of view around that perfect face, exemplifying and exaggerating his already angelic features and those neon blue eyes to the point of actual insanity. Gabriel would bet that Jack’s soul tasted like pure fucking sunlight. Those eyes… Shit. The snow was completely gone from them, burned away by that impossible light.

What had happened in the Capital to melt all of those layers of packed SEP ice that had separated them? Fuck if Gabriel knew. Fuck if he cared. But now, with Jack seemingly whole again and standing only a foot away like a living, breathing miracle of a human being, the weight of the blood on his hands began to pool around his feet. Gabriel’s sins were suddenly harsh and up front in his mind, the many new skeletons in his closets laid bare. He’d become a monster. He didn’t deserve Jack. Especially not a fixed Jack.

Fuck.

“Hey, Gabe,” Jack smiled like a shy fucking schoolboy and Gabriel wanted to scoop him up and carry him back to his quarters like a god damn princess. “Miss me?”

“A bit,” Gabriel managed to keep himself in check.

“Still want to make me in to a lampshade?”

“A bit.”

Jack grinned coyly and both Gabriel and the shadow in his veins wanted to eat him alive. “How about you buy me dinner first?”

He could feel Jesse’s eyes dart between them while a growl rumbled in Gabriel’s chest. “I made radstag stew.”

The blonde fluttered his eyes playfully. “Oh, just for me?”

“You’re not that fucking special, Morrison.”

Jack smiled again and his halo pulsed a nervous but happy shade of yellow, hints of blue crawling along the outer edges. “Yes I am.”

Holy fucking shit.

“Hey, Jack!” Jesse threw his arm around Jack’s shoulder, separating them, and Gabriel had to practically beat back the impulse to rip him to shreds. “Let’s get you to your new digs and then we’ll eat. I bet you’re all tuckered out from all that walkin’!”

“Jesse?” Jack laughed as they began to walk. “You got…tall.”

“Thanks! Papi Gabe’s been makin’ sure I eat my greens!”

Gabriel hissed and stomped after them as the four walked back to Blackwatch for dinner and light conversation. It was going to take every ounce of his self-control not to lock Jack in his office and never let him out again.

 

“He’ll be keeping a close eye on you,” TP-97 warned and shut the door. “Any communication between us must seem casual.”

It was just after dinner and the pair of synths had managed to excuse themselves under the pretense of catching up. Reyes had allowed it but with the way he was eyeing him, 76 was shocked he hadn’t been chained up and tied to a bed. His insides were alive, quivering with anticipation at those eyes, but he needed to keep things cool with Gabriel. He needed to keep his focus. And part of that was discussing work with Tom, as boring as that was by comparison.

 “Relax, Tom,” 76 smirked and sat at Tom’s small table. “Gabe knows that we’re friends. It’s only natural for us to talk a lot and work closely together. You were Jack’s number-two. Though I guess now you outrank me.”

“Technically, I cannot, as you’re now retired and hold no Gunner ranking,” the red-head corrected and sat across from his guest.

“You’re about as stiff as I remember,” 76 tittered.

“Is that good or bad?”

“Neither, really. I guess it means Jack’s memories are still good in the plastic noggin’. So, on the better side of things, I suppose.”

“That’s…good.”

“So, how have you been, Lieutenant?”

 Tom blinked slowly in a quiet moment of contemplation. “Are you asking as a coworker or as a friend?”

“Both,” 76 shrugged. “Mostly the latter, though. Like I mentioned in my letter, I’m only invested with our mutual supervisors because of Gabriel. Once his ‘condition’ has been handled, I’m bailing as soon as possible.”

Tom studied him, his green eyes dark and intense in a way that 76 didn’t recall Jack ever seeing before. The synth was nervous. He didn’t trust Jack’s replacement, which was completely reasonable. The Institute had in fact sent 76 to Blackwatch partially to diagnose his peer’s mental state and report back with his opinion of whether or not TP-97 should be put out of commission or reset, but 76 had already decided what he’d be responding with, regardless of what was actually going on. Tom wasn’t going anywhere he didn’t want to go. Not so long as 76 had anything to say about it.

“I’ve been better,” Tom confessed, keeping his voice quiet. His quarters had windows and a locked door but it was never a poor idea to be cautious. “My duties got a good deal more challenging after Jack left for the Capital, as Gabriel quickly began to suffer emotional complications. And since he found that weapon of his, he’s become nearly impossible to deal with or to direct and has developed increasingly violent tendencies. He’s even begun to become curt with Captain McCree. I’m certain you’ve noticed the changes in him, relative to Jack’s experiences.”

“Yeah,” 76 sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. If he’s starting to get on-edge with even Jesse, it’s not looking good.”

“But aside from the dreadful working conditions, things here have been about the same as usual. I’ve managed to get rather close to Captain McCree since Jack left, due to us being forced to work more closely together after my promotion to Lieutenant. He’s proven very valuable in influencing and supervising Gabriel.”

“How close are we talking?” 76 waggled his eyebrows suggestively, but Tom didn’t show any signs of amusement. He’d always been on the bland side but he definitely seemed more so now. 76 hoped he could earn the synth’s trust before the day was over. If they had to work together, he’d prefer they could at least be amicable.

“Very close.”

“Like bed-buds close?”

“No,” Tom grunted, the corner of his lips threatening to smirk. “Nothing like that. He flirts with me, yes. Jesse is quite…playful. And solicitous. He’s always attempting to assist me with things or looking out for me. He often prepares me my meals. He’s quite an accomplished chef.”

76 smiled fondly. “Well, it sounds to me like you’re friends.”

“Yes,” Tom agreed. “We are…friends. I shall miss him when I am reassigned. I still miss Jack some days.”

“I missed you, if it’s any consolation. I know it’s not, though,” the blonde offered a sympathetic smile. “But you don’t have to miss Jesse.”

Tom eyed him guardedly. “What are you getting at?”

76 leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Listen, if Gabriel can’t be saved, if he’s truly lost and we have to…put him down,” he nearly choked on the words as they exited his throat, “I want to take Jesse and go.”

Tom arched an eyebrow, leaning in to match his whisper. “Go? Go where?”

“Literally anywhere else, but preferably somewhere that’s not the Capital or Commonwealth. Somewhere that people don’t know synths are and where the Institute doesn’t have spies or Coursers. Somewhere we’ll be safe from being hunted down and reset or put in the dirt.”

“But why take Jesse?”

“Because he deserves better than these assholes and you know that he does. Jesse knows how to survive and I know how to farm. We could all settle down and start our own settlement somewhere far, far, _far_ away. I think he’d be happy with us, once I’ve gained his trust. I don’t have any intention of treating him like trash like Jack did.”

"Why do you care about what happens to him?” Tom leered doubtfully. “Jack didn’t even like Jesse.”

“No. Jack didn’t like Jesse,” 76 confirmed, “but I think he deserves a chance at a better life than this one. Jack may not have been too jealous to see that Jesse’s a good kid, but I sure as hell can. If Jesse were literally anyone else, he’d have bailed the moment he saw Gabe going south, but he stuck around. He’s devoted, and he’s got high morals for a gangster-turned-mercenary. I don’t want to leave him here. Personally, I think he should get out before things get worse, particularly if Gabe doesn’t improve soon. Jesse’s putting his neck on the block, as close as he is.”

“You’re serious… Aren’t you?”

“Yes, Tom. I’m quite serious.”

Tom leaned back and gnawed on his lower lip before removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Very well,” he sighed. “I’m going to have to put my better judgement aside and trust that you’re being legitimate.”

“I am,” 76 promised. “I swear it, Tom. My allegiance is with Gabe, not the Institute, and with Jack’s friends after that— _my_ friends. At least I hope we can be friends.”

“I believe that I would like that very much, SS-76.”

“76 or Jack is just fine.”

“76, then,” Tom nodded. “I suppose it’s only fair, seeing as how you insist on calling me by my alias rather than my designation.”

“If you’d prefer I called you by TP-97, I can use that. I just figured—”

“No! No, I like it,” Tom smiled a bit shyly. “Tom is fine… Thank you. It’s been my identity for most of my existence. I…think that I much prefer it over my designation.”

“Tom it is,” 76 smiled back. “I know that you’re a copy of the original Thomas Stultz, but you’re always going to be Tom to me. I know that I’ll never be Jack for you, but that’s fine. It still feels strange some days to be called Jack, honestly. I just hope my face isn’t too off-putting for you.”

“It is a little bit,” Tom admitted with a scrunch of his nose before sliding his glasses back on. “But I’ll adjust. You seem different from Jack. Friendlier. You need to be cautious.”

“People have a tendency to change after nearly being eaten alive and held hostage for a while,” 76 chuckled. “But I’ll tone it back if you think it’s too much. I’m just being me, which is a direct copy of Jack so it’s worked for me so far.”

Tom flicked his green eyes over 76’s face, studying him again. “It’s strange seeing you so…genuine,” he observed. “You do not suffer from Jack’s emotional difficulties, do you?”

“Not as many, no. Dr. O’Deorain gave me his enhancements without having to use the serum. My brain wasn’t burned out like Jack’s was.”

“Ah,” Tom nodded. “That…makes sense. I never met Jack before SEP but it seems that the serum must have deeply affected how Jack processed emotions. This explains a good deal of his personality defects, actually.”

“Personality defects?” 76 chortled. “Man, you’re harsh on me today, Tom.”

“Jack knew that he was damaged by the program. We discussed it many times, though he never went in to depth about the cause other than it was SEP-related.”

“I remember,” 76 nodded. “He didn’t want you to think he was a freak.”

“Jack was not a freak,” the red-head frowned.

“I know that and you know that, but he didn’t. Jack was…well… He was…damaged. That’s definitely the word we’ll go with: damaged. It’s unfortunate that he was set up for failure. But I know who and what I am, Tom, and I’m not going to make the same mistakes.”

His friend gave a solemn and thoughtful hum. “Many people believe that they can fix or avoid old mistakes, only to fall to them time and time again.”

“You’re like a synthetic fortune cookie.”

“Thank you,” the lieutenant smirked.

“I missed you, Tom.”

“I missed you, too.”

76 smiled and Tom smiled back, and for the first time since he’d woken up in that god-forsaken lab, the blonde felt secure that he could trust another person. “I’m glad that we chose to be friends instead of fight over things outside of our control.”

“Me too.”

“Now that we’re being so honest with one another, how do you feel about our work?”

“I get to operate here, so it could be worse,” Tom shrugged. “But I generally don’t care for it, for obvious reasons.”

“Have you ever considered leaving? Alone, I mean? Like running away?”

Tom eyed him again, still with enough sense and self-preservation to be guarded in his response. “Yes,” he confessed. “I’ve actually been in recent contact with the Railroad. They’ve agreed to assist me should I ever choose to flee.”

“Holy shit,” 76 gawked in open shock. He’d been sort of hopeful that Tom would be interested in leaving all of this behind and running to make a life for himself somewhere, but the Railroad? He hadn’t been expecting anything like that. If Zimmer knew Tom was in contact with them, he hadn’t hinted it to 76. Tom was remarkable at keeping his business under the radar. “You mean the synth freedom-fighters?”

“Yes. I have considered having myself reset and relocated.”

76 frowned at the prospect. “You can’t seriously be willing to just _erase_ yourself… It’s not like just forgetting things, Tom. You literally become nothing and they reprogram you with a whole other personality. You’re not yourself anymore after that. It’s basically suicide!”

“I’m aware of that, yes,” Tom muttered. “Though it is not in my personal taste to undertake such a drastic procedure, it would be the best defense I’d have against being tracked down by a Courser.”

“Tom, if you run, just run. You don’t need the help of some kooks to get out of here, and you don’t have to turn yourself in to a completely different person, either.”

“They have Zimmer’s birds watching camp. I can’t just walk out without them noticing.”

The soldier hummed and rubbed his chin. “Well, Moira set up my mask to sense the birds, in case she has something she wants me to do under Zimmer’s radar. I can give you my spare so you can find a clear path out of here. I can just tell Moira my original got busted on an op and that I had to destroy it to secure Institute confidentiality. I’ve got her and Zimmer and the Director in my back pocket believing I’m a good little soldier, so no one would suspect that I handed it to you. And if you bailed, I’d cover for you,” he offered. “It should give you solid day or so head-start before they even knew you were missing. That’s plenty enough to get you out of the Commonwealth. I’d have to report you, of course, but I can easily come up with a believable excuse for not having done it immediately. I mean, the original Tom obviously went missing here and no one noticed. It’s pretty much the same thing. You left on a job and didn’t come back, but we just thought you were lost or having issues or something, blah, blah. It’s no big deal.”

Tom blinked in open surprise. “You’d…really do all of that for me?”

“Of course,” 76 smiled. “We’re friends, right?” He grabbed the spare from his backpack and tossed it on to Tom’s neat bed. “Friends look out for each other.”

“Yes… I…suppose that they do.” The lieutenant grinned timidly, lowering his green eyes. If Tom were this demure around someone like him, 76 could only imagine how the guy responded to Jesse’s brashness.

 “To be perfectly honest, Tom, we’re practically brothers. You’re the closest thing to family that I have out here and I want to help you in any way that you’ll allow. I’m not scared of Zimmer or his lackeys.”

“Thank you, 76. I mean that. But you’re really too generous for your own good.”

“I’ll take that as a complement,” the blonde winked. “So, now that we’ve got that covered, are we in agreement that we should try to steal Jesse away if we decide to bail together?”

“If that is what he wants, yes,” Tom nodded.

“You know that we’d have to tell him what we are, right?”

The red-head sighed and leaned back in his chair, slouching and running a hand through his neat hair. “Yes… I am aware…”

“Relax. I didn’t mean to make you anxious about it. Jesse obviously likes you, Tom. I’m sure things will be fine. He’s not really the racist sort.”

The synth closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He won’t when he finds out that I’m not real.”

“But you _are_ real,” 76 insisted, half-leaning across the table. “Don’t let the idiots in the SRB mess with you, Tom. You’re a person.”

“Not really,” Tom smirked between quiet, sullen snickers. “But thank you.”

The ex-Gunner sat back in his creaky chair, resting his arm on the back and frowned, legitimately unsettled that his friend was so fooled by their creators in to believing that he was worthless. Tom was staring at the table and cleaning his classes with a rag, a nervous compulsion he’d had since Jack could remember. “You really believe that? Don’t you? That you’re not a person?”

Tom slid his glasses back on, gently pressing them to the bridge of his freckled nose. “I believe it only because it is true. We are counterfeit by design, 76. We have no soul.”

“I never said that we had souls,” 76 snorted. Even he wouldn’t go so far as to believe that synths had souls, if something like that existed at all. “I only said that you’re a _person_. You can make decisions for yourself. That’s got to count for something.”

“Decisions that are made with programmed bias,” Tom disputed mechanically, like he’d had this conversation with himself a thousand times. “A computer can make decisions, 76. Even complex ones. We’re simply advanced versions of the same programming that you use every day to send e-mails.”

“Bullshit,” 76 jabbed a finger at the table to emphasize his disagreement. “That’s _bullshit_ , Tom. We can love and hate and dream. Computers can’t do any of that.”

“We simulate emotions, 76. They’re not authentic. As for our ‘dreams’, they’re simply a byproduct of our programs attempting to organize and make sense of superfluous or incomplete data. I’d make a bet that you only dream about things that you don’t fully understand.”

“I know that I love Gabriel,” the blonde scowled defensively.  “You can’t tell me that I don’t. Those feelings are _real_ , Tom. They might be copied and pasted but computers can’t pretend to love. It’s as genuine a feeling as any legitimate human experiences.”

The red-head stared at him for a long moment, no emotion on his face to betray his inner workings, before he turned his olive eyes away. “That is your opinion and you are entitled to having one.”

“You really think everything you do and say and think and feel are just programmed responses?”

“Yes.”

76 scoffed, absolutely incredulous at his companion’s complete disregard of their personhood. He wanted to be angry but instead found himself pitying the synth sitting across from him. TP-97, a being fully capable of love and laughter, believed himself to be little more than an exalted terminal. What a sad but not uncommon existence.

The Institute really knew how to fuck up their sentient lab-experiments.

 “Tom…listen to me. I’m literally a carbon copy of someone’s brain, down to the last second of his existence. Shit, I remember things Jack never could because my brain’s a literal supercomputer. But you? You were a blank slate that had to _learn_ who you were meant to be; to replace. But even though you’re basically completely analogous to Thomas Stultz, whether by design or on your own evolution, you’re still a different person from him, just like how I’m different from Jack. You’re not a human but that doesn’t mean you’re a monster or something to be feared or killed. I hope that you can see that.”

“This conversation makes me uncomfortable.”

“All right,” 76 nodded in only slightly-irritated assent before standing to walk out. He unlatched the door but wavered, hand on the old, warped knob. “Fine. Sorry. Just…give Jesse a chance to accept you for who you are, all right? And you don’t have to erase yourself to get away from the Institute, Tom. You have friends here that want to help. I know Jesse would, given the chance. That’s all I’m saying.”

The lieutenant refused to look at him. “You’ll find the nanites in your temporary quarters, in the lower left-hand drawer of your desk. Give them to Gabriel as soon as you have the opportunity. Dr. O’Deorain says that her most recent lab results show his cells are decaying at a rapid rate. We don’t have long before he’s too lost to save.”

“Right,” 76 sighed before opening the door, welcomed by the cool night air on his face. “Thanks. See you around, Lieutenant.”

“Yes. See you around, Jack.”

76 stepped outside and stretched, already feeling Gabriel’s hot eyes watching him from somewhere. He swept his gaze until locating the lieutenant’s muscular frame. Gabriel was lounging restlessly against the metal siding of the Mess Hall, ruddy eyes almost reflecting in the overhead lamps of the camp. He was as rugged and handsome and intense as Jack had remembered, and the synth knew he was in for a real fight with keeping himself under control. Jack had been shy and awkward, and 76 was not (mostly), but he needed to keep up the illusion of a recovering Jack. It would be suspicious for him to simply rush to Gabriel’s arms; these things took time, and he had a reputation to uphold.

76 just had to keep reminding himself that this was all to make sure that Gabriel got the medicine he needed to get over whatever was haunting those dark eyes. He’d need to check out the bottle Tom had left him and figure out the best way to go about giving them to Gabriel.

“Hey, Gabe,” he greeted with a small wave while crossing the dirt path to meet the Gunner. 76 slid his hands into the pockets of his armored pants and rocked his weight on the ball of his boots. “Thanks for dinner.”

“How’s Tom?”

“Seems like he’s been doing pretty well. Told me that he was hanging out with Jesse a lot. And man… Jesse? He’s so tall and filled-out. Holy shit. He looks completely different.”

“Yeah, he’s grown up a lot in the last year or so. Shot up about eight months ago like a damn weed in a stupid fucking cowboy hat. Did you see the belt?”

“Tell me you didn’t give it to him,” 76 smirked.

Gabriel grinned that fanged grin and the synth’s fake heart leapt to his ears. “No. It was Stultz.”

“TOM?” 76 gaped before laughing. “Holy shit! What’s your stupid cowboy done to my captain, Reyes?”

“They’ve become friends or some bullshit like that,” the Gunner sniggered. “I guess it’s better than being at each other’s throats like they were before you left.”

76’s smile wilted awkwardly at the subject, though Gabriel’s eyes remained hard and unreadable. “Do you…want to talk about it…?”

“Not tonight.” Gabriel shrugged off the wall and sighed in to the dark.

“Walk me to my quarters? Civilians should be escorted while on Gunner property,” he teased gently.

“I can’t have you wandering around alone. You might steal supplies, you blonde little shit.”

“Can’t have that,” 76 chuckled with him as they both began to walk. His temporary quarters were a guesthouse that was also utilized as the med-bay. It was safe and clean, with a lockable door and a fresh bed, and was only two shacks away from Gabriel’s place. He stepped up to the door and stooped to pull the skeleton key from under a rock by the stairs. 76 wagged the item at the smirking Gabriel before unlocking the door and opening it. “You really should update your security measures, Reyes.”

Gabriel growled low and wanting, his red-brown eyes glazing over. Had they always been that color? “Good night, Morrison. Sleep with a locked door or someone might invade your privacy.”

“Does that happen often, Lieutenant?” 76 grinned and handed him the key before stepping through the door. The synth nearly gasped when his wrist was snatched, luring a glance back over his shoulder.

“I missed you, Jack,” he said quietly.

76 offered a quiet smile. “I missed you too, Gabe.”

Gabriel hesitated before releasing him and took a quick step back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Tomorrow.”

They stared at each other for a solid minute before Gabriel was called at. “I’LL BE THERE IN A FUCKING SECOND,” he hollered. The Gunner looked at Jack’s duplicate one last time before he bounded off.

76 exhaled a shaky breath and slipped into the shack and locked the door behind him. His back hit the door and he slid to sit on the dirty welcome mat before spending the next half hour trying to get himself under control.

This was going to be more difficult that he’d thought.

 

Jesse couldn’t take seeing Gabe like this, and though he wasn’t _positive_ it was the creepy, hell-spawned ritual blade with runes on it that his commander had dredged out of a watery pit in the bottom of a haunted mineshaft, he’d take his chances.

Years in Deadlock and surviving in the ruins had honed Jesse in to an accomplished thief, but it wouldn’t be easy picking the sword off of his always-on-alert commander. Reyes kept the thing on him like scripture, compulsively twirling it by the handle and tapping it against their oak meeting table, but Jesse had caught a few times he seemed to put it down: breakfast, bathing, and the very little but still dwindling time that the man actually slept—but he kept it under his pillow, so that option seemed lost. Gabe wasn’t much of a morning person, and snatching it up while the man was still a little drowsy was enticing. Bathing, less as much. Gabe was a compulsive bather and even though he found the stupid sword in an ancient well, he didn’t care to take any risks and left it with his clothing when he bathed. But, as childish as it was, Jesse wasn’t terribly interested in getting an eyeful by accident or being chased by a naked Reyes. So breakfast would have to make do, unless another opportunity presented itself, which at this point seemed unlikely, but he remained coiled to snatch up such a fortuitous chance like a starved coyote parked at a rabbit hole.

Sooner or later an opportunity would perk its head, and Jesse McCree would be prepared for it. But he could use any help that he could get, which was why he’d decided to ask the only other person he could trust in matters like this.

“Think we could have a chat, Tommy?”

They were on a job, parked in an old apartment building in Cambridge and waiting for the signal. Not but a day after Jack had shown up, Blackwatch had been hired by some local farmers to help clear the Greentech Genetics building of a raider gang, which was perfect because Gabriel had been interested in setting up a base there. Tom had decided to send some scouts ahead to gather intel on exactly what they were dealing with—numbers, firearms, turrets, that sort of thing—leaving the lieutenant and captain to keep watch. It was their job to make sure the roads were clear of any raiders or ghouls or anything else so their men didn’t get jumped.

It was late, past midnight by now, but they were both armed with night-vision scopes. Jesse preferred a pair of bulky night-vision goggles he’d found several months previously while they were rummaging through a crate in an old military base, but his red-head cohort kept his sights through his silenced sniper rifle, always prepared to deal with any threats. Tom was slow to shoot but had lightning reflexes that challenged even Gabriel’s or Jack’s. Jesse had always been amazed at how well he kept up with them. It was like he’d been cut from the same slab of pretty stone.

“So long as you keep quiet, you are always welcome to chat with me, Captain,” he smiled in to his rifle but kept his gaze sweeping the streets with as little movement as possible. No one would see him. The guy was a professional, if nothing else.

“Quiet,” Jesse whispered, “right. Promise.”

“What’s on your mind, Jesse?”

“I think it’s about time that something was done about Gabe.”

Tom briefly hesitated in his perimeter sweep, the greens of his almond-shaped eyes sliding momentarily to glance at his peer before flitting back to the scope. “What do you exactly have in mind?”

Jesse gnawed on his chapped lower lip and scooted closer, lowering his voice further though no one was anywhere near them. The building they’d picked had been abandoned, and though they’d found and exterminated a handful of feral ghouls that had been squatting there, there wasn’t a soul left in the complex. It was just the two of them and about a hundred empty rooms of splintered beds and slumbering skeletons. “I want to get that damn weapon outta his hands.”

“You want to take Kremvh’s Tooth?” Tom nearly snorted, still looking down below.

“The creepy hell-blade? Yeah. That’d be the one.”

“How exactly do you plan on separating Gabriel from his beloved artifact?”

“Heck if I know. You’re the planner in this relationship, Tom. I figured you’d come up with something.”

“So we’re in a relationship now, are we?”

“Well, I mean… Uhhh…. I mean…”

Tom smiled in to his gun, his long body shivering as he chuckled very quietly. “I’m only teasing you, Jesse. You can relax.”

Jesse grumbled as he felt his cheeks burn. He reached to pull his hat over his face in a nervous compulsion only to remember that he wasn’t wearing it and suddenly felt naked. “Do you have a plan or not?”

“No. If I had a plan, I’d have made a move myself, Jesse.”

“So you agree that this sword is hurting Gabe?”

“I believe that it is a machete.”

“A _machete_?” Jesse blurted. Tom’s hand flew to cover his mouth faster than the cowboy had time to react. Jesse gawked in surprise at his speed, knocked on his back with Tom half-sitting on top of him, his face stern in the dim light.

“Yes. A machete.” The lieutenant shifted to release him, apparently satisfied that he’d shut the fuck up, and returned his attention to his post. “Whatever this artifact is, it’s definitely got some sort of grip on him. Gabriel hasn’t been the same person since Dunwich. I’m not the sort to believe in superstitious nonsense, and there must be a scientific explanation for whatever’s going on with him, but it’s certainly linked to the weapon. It would seem to me that its removal would be prudent to assist in his recovery.”

“Uh… Right,” Jesse nodded and rolled back on to his belly. “So we need to take it, but neither of us ain’t got a plan?”

“No, Jesse. I do not _have_ a plan,” Tom emphasized critically.

“This ain’t the time to be judgin’ my language skills, Stultz.”

“Of course not,” Tom exhaled a bit tetchily. “I believe that we can agree that Gabriel is in need of assistance, but that neither of us knows exactly how to proceed.”

“Right,” Jesse nodded. “That’s about it, I suppose. But I think it’s feasible.”

“Perhaps. Or it could be suicide. Gabriel is becoming increasingly hostile towards everyone—even you. It’s very possible that any effort to remove the artifact would result in death.”

“I don’t think he’d hurt me,” Jesse argued. “He’s basically my pa.”

“That may be true but are you willing to take that risk?”

“Yes.”

Tom sighed and looked away from the street to frown at his friend. “Jesse… Perhaps we should just…”

“Just what?” Jesse scowled.

“Leave.”

“What?”

Tom’s eyes flattened seriously. “We could leave.”

“What do you mean _leave_?” Jesse stammered, shocked at the turn in conversation. Where the friggin’ hell did this come from?

“We could run away from Blackwatch.”

“WHAT?”

“We could get far away from this place—from Gabriel and the Gunners and the Commonwealth. We could hide somewhere and try a different life elsewhere.”

 “You wanna do WHAT?” He’d given up on being quiet, now in full shock mode, eyes wide in his goggles and jaw agape. “We can’t just run, Tom! I can’t leave Gabe like this! He’s my pa!”

Tom moved to hush him, foregoing the rifle to lean over the shorter Gunner. “He’s dangerous, Jesse.”

“I know that! But I can’t abandon him! You can’t seriously be asking me to leave Blackwatch!”

“JESSE,” the lieutenant scolded, raising his voice for the first time that evening. “He could KILL you.”

Jesse’s eyes hardened. “He won’t.”

Tom’s greens darkened right back at him. “You don’t know that for sure.”

“He WON’T,” Jesse growled.

Tom squinted but didn’t seem put off by the scowl on the captain’s face. “Jesse, please,” he begged. “Just run away. Get away, before it’s too late. Before things spiral out of control. If you died, I’d be miserable.”

“I ain’t runnin’, Tom.”

“Either you’re going to die or Gabriel is going to die. There won’t be a happy end to this story if you stay,” Tom warned. He exhaled through his nose and cupped Jesse’s cheek before leaning their foreheads together. The smaller man’s chest tightened. “Please,” his voice was nearly a whisper. “Run.”

But Jesse knew that he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t abandon Gabriel. “No,” he decided, though his voice was shaking and quiet. “I can’t, Tom… I can’t and I won’t.”

The red-head sighed and leaned back, turning his face away. “I’m leaving.”

“What?” Jesse frowned, still dazed by the conversation.

Tom scooped up his sniper rifle and began to disassemble the stand with his practiced ease and speed. “I’m leaving the Commonwealth.”

“You’re leaving? You mean now? Right NOW?”

“Yes.” Tom slipped the stand in to a bag and grabbed his things before standing to his full height, looking down on the bewildered captain. “I was going to wait and do it after this mission was over, but perhaps now would be best. I need you to tell them that I vanished in combat. That I was injured and limped off somewhere. It will buy me some time. But if you’re unwilling to lie for me, I will certainly understand.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Jesse scrambled to his feet. He removed his goggles, sliding them up his greasy forehead. Tom was smiling sadly down on him, looking dejected but determined and as pretty as ever. “You’re seriously bailing on us? Just like that?”

“I have to go, Jesse. I can’t do this anymore.”

“But you can’t just _leave_!” Jesse croaked desperately while tears threatened to bite his eyes. “Especially now that Jack’s back! He could help us!”

Tom stared down at him and Jesse could practically hear the gears churning under the mop of his well-combed hair. “Jesse…things…aren’t as they seem,” he said very carefully, his smooth voice falling quiet.

Jesse’s breath got stuck in his throat. The insides of his mouth felt like cotton. “What do you mean? Tom… What are you talkin’ about? You been keepin’ secrets from me or somthin’?”

Tom pressed his pink lips together and looked away before nodding. “Yes, Jesse. I’ve been keeping secrets from you.”

“Well?” he demanded. “What sorts of secrets? And what’s any of this got to do with Gabe? Or with you wantin’ to run off like a scared dog? This ain’t like you.”

Tom frowned and blew a small breath of shaky air. Jesse had never before seen the red-head look so unnerved.

“Tom,” Jesse eyed him warily. “What did you do?”

“Sit down, Jesse.”

“I will sure as heck not!”

“Sit down. Please.”

The teenager leered but did as he was instructed, crossing his arms and dropping his rear on a crate he’d used as a makeshift chair earlier that afternoon. “I’m sittin,” he grumped. “Talk.”

The lieutenant knelt down to his level, sitting back on his narrow knees and resting his hands in his lap. He remained quiet, guarded, for a long minute before finally speaking and shattering Jesse’s view of the whole world, “Jesse… I’m a synth.”

The captain stared dumbly at him. “What?”

“I’m not a human. I’m a synthetic lifeform, created by the Institute with the intention of spying on the Gunners, amongst other things. I murdered and replaced the original Thomas Stultz years before your arrival and I’ve been posing as him ever since. My real name—my designation—is TP-97. I never told you any of this, for what should be obvious reasons. I’m sorry.”

Jesse choked on any words that tried to make it out of his mouth while he open and shut his jaw like a dumb-looking fish out of water, desperately attempting to decipher the punch to his brain. Tom was a robot? A ‘synth’? A spy? All of this time they’d been coworkers? Friends? Were they even friends? 

“Wh… What?” he finally managed. “Tom… I… I don’t understand…”

“I need you to promise to keep this between us, Jesse. If Gabriel found out, he’d become even more paranoid than he already is.”

“I… Holy shit… Just… Holy friggin’ shit…”

Tom continued to stare at his hands. “I’ve grown weary of lying to you, Jesse. And I’m sick of being a tool. I’m just….sick of it. I have to run. I can’t do this anymore.”

As angry and shocked as Jesse was at the revelation that his best friend was a fake freaking person, he could see the shame and fear in the deep curve of Tom’s shoulders and in his averted eyes, and any resentment was broiling in the teenager’s gut evaporated.

Could robots feel regret? Jesse didn’t know.

“This is a lot to chew on… I wasn’t exactly expecting…well…this... I…don’t really know what to think or say here…”

“I know that it is. I wanted to tell you the truth so many times, Jesse, but I knew that you would be angry with me… I didn’t wish to upset you…”

“Well, heck yeah it’s upsetting to find out that your best pal in the world is a friggin’ spy for a shady organization that supposedly controls the whole world or somethin’! But…you didn’t wanna be… Did you?”

“No. I didn’t choose to or want to be a synth or a spy. I could have said no to killing and replacing the real Thomas Stultz, but my creators would have just killed me and made another synth. Even once I’d gotten to Blackwatch, they’d have just hunted me down if I’d run. Comply or be culled isn’t much of a choice.”

Culled. Tom always picked such strange words. If he were really  robot, Jesse figured that might explain some of his odder ticks. “Yeah, wow… Okay… So…then why run now, if it’s so dangerous?”

“Because it’s my only option to escape this life, as risky as it is. I was admittedly hoping that perhaps you’d see how dangerous the situation with Gabriel is and run away with me. I’m aware that was naïve of me, but I had to try.”

Jesse frowned and shook his head. “I can’t go with you, Tommy… Gabe needs me.”

“I encourage you to rethink your options. Gabriel is dying, Jesse. He’s dying and he’s insane and he’s going to take you and all of Blackwatch with him. That weapon of his is infecting his mind. It’s going to be the end of you if you stay.”

“Be that as it may be, I can’t just give up on ‘im, Tommy. I can’t and I won’t. Not after all Gabe did for me. I ain’t leavin’.”

“Very well,” the synth sighed and stood, towering above him and looking as alien and handsome as Jesse had ever remembered him to be. “Your devotion to Lieutenant Reyes is both admirable and bewildering, but I respect your decision.”

Jesse moved his brown eyes all across his friend’s face and frame with hopes of memorizing him—all of the freckles splashed across his high cheeks, the umbery color of his hair, the way his pretty green eyes shied away when Jesse looked at him for too long, his social awkwardness and his quiet little laugh and terrible jokes…

God damn, he was going to miss Tom.

“So…where are you gonna go?”

“Somewhere that you’ll never find me,” the red-head smiled sadly. “I’m sorry that things had to end this way, Jesse.”

“Was any of it…real?” he asked quietly as Tom moved towards the empty doorframe. “Were we ever really friends? Did you ever really like me?”

Tom smiled warmly at him and Jesse’s stomach lurched to his throat, hot and fluttering. “Yes,” the synth replied very softly. “I believe that we were. I suppose that I fooled you in to believing that I was real enough to care about; that I was worth anything at all. I’m not. I’m not real, Jesse, but my fondness for you is real, I think. At least, it feels real… A friend of mine reminded me recently that though I’m a machine that I shouldn’t ignore or reject my emotions. That I have feelings that are my own,” he said mostly to himself, like he had to convince himself that it was true. “I apologize for tricking you, Jesse. You were friends with the shadow of a man that was long-dead.”

“I never knew the real Tom Stultz,” Jesse mused distantly. “I don’t think I can care for a guy that I’ve never even met, so…I must care for you. The robot Tom, I mean.” He jumped to his boots and grabbed his friend by the arm, compelled by a rush of sudden desperation to keep him there. “Don’t go!” he begged. “I don’t care that you’re a robot. Really, I don’t. Stay with us! Fight and stay! We could protect you! You don’t have to work for that Institute place no more, if you don’t wanna. I’ll put a bullet in every last one of those shadowy sons of bitches for yuh, I swear it on my mama’s gravestone.”

“Jesse, as wonderful as that sounds, if I stayed and were outed as a synth, not only would the Institute come after all of us, but the entirety of the Commonwealth’s wrath would befall Blackwatch. I can’t do that to you.  But…thank you,” he smiled and carded those long fingers through Jesse’s grimy hair. “Your offer of assistance is more poignant than you’ll ever know. It’s…overwhelming to feel this valued to anyone.”

“You ARE valued, Tommy,” Jesse was nearly in tears as he tugged at his friend’s sleeve, desperate to convey how much he wanted him to stay.  “You are! You’re one of the best fellas I’ve ever known. I don’t think that goodness can be faked.”

“I murdered a man and replaced him, Jesse.”

“Only because it was that or be killed, yourself!” Jesse insisted. “There’s gotta be somethin’ we can do for you, Tom. There’s gotta be a way to keep you at Blackwatch! There just has to be! I can’t help Gabe alone and I can’t trust Jack as it stands with him tryin’ to snuggle all close to ‘im and such… I need you here! _Gabe_ needs you here!”

“No, Jesse,” the synth shook his head. “This is it. I have to go. This is my last chance. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to go…” Jesse pressed his forehead against the synth’s arm. Tom was warm and soft and felt more real than any fake person he’d ever met. Not that he’d ever met a synthetic human and known it before. Did Tom have gears or wires under there? Jesse had seen him bleed before. He’d seen the Gunner break his leg; had seen the bones snap and be reset and heal. How was he a robot? How was he any different than Jesse or anybody else?

Tom sighed and set his bag down to turn and pull his friend in to a tight embrace. He nuzzled his nose into the tangled disaster that was Jesse’s hair while the teenager struggled to hold himself together and wrapped his arms as tightly around Tom’s narrow chest as he could without smothering him. The guy smelled like freshly-washed cotton. It should have been a flag that he wasn’t a human—no real man smelled as clean as Stultz. “I’ll miss you, Jesse… Promise me that you’ll survive this mess. Promise me.”

“I promise,” he sniffed. “And I’ll tell Gabe that you got hurt and vanished in the fight…”

“Thank you, Jesse. I don’t deserve your help but it’s greatly appreciated.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“I don’t know.” The synth pressed a kiss to his head and released the teenager to scoop his bag up. “Goodbye, Jesse. Thank you for being my friend.”

Jesse wiped his eyes and moved to the hall to watch his friend’s tall form vanish in to the dark. “Goodbye, Tommy,” he whispered into the growing expanse. “I won’t forget you.”

A few more seconds and the realization finally settled that his friend was gone. Really gone. The teenager dropped to his knees and propped his head against the warped door-frame as tears swelled in his brown eyes, still staring in to the black and empty and vast hallway.

Jesse had never felt so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter ended up longer than expected, but 76 is finally in Blackwatch 8) WE MADE IT, KIDDOS. Now we’ll just have to see how much like Jack he really is--for better or for worse.  
> Meanwhile, Jesse’s going to have to take matters in to his own hands.  
> Things are about to get...messy.
> 
> The next chapter should go up soon because it’s mostly pre-written.
> 
> Sorry if this chapter's a bit unedited or wonky.. I wrote it on less than 4 hours of sleep. I may come back this week and edit it/add more/etc.
> 
> Side Note: Tom wasn’t actually supposed to really be a ‘character’ but he ended up becoming one, mostly because it seemed natural that Jesse would befriend him after Jack left. We’ll have to wait and see if he pokes his head up again in the future.


	12. Hell or High Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse and 76 bond a little, and Jesse tries to save Gabriel from himself.  
> TRIGGER WARNING: mild blood/gore

It hadn’t taken much to attract the attention of some raiders wandering the streets and spill a little blood. A collection of bodies was plenty a show to convince the returning scouts that Tom had gotten injured in a firefight and had vanished in the chaos. Jesse had even been devoted enough of a friend to take a bullet to the leg to sell it—completely intentionally, of course. The injury wasn’t awful; the bullet had gone clean through, but it hurt like the dickens and he’d required some assistance to return to Blackwatch by mid-morning.

Gabriel had steamed that Jesse and Tom had allowed themselves to get caught in that sort of situation, and had been even redder in the face to find out that Tom was missing and that Jesse had left him behind. Jesse’s soldiers had swept the perimeter for a good half mile and hadn’t found a sign of the guy, not even a blood-trail, though Jesse swore that Tom had taken a shot to the abdomen. Gabe sent another search party, which Jack offered to join and did so, inevitably ending up the leader even though the guy wasn’t a Gunner anymore. 

Jesse hadn’t yet decided how he felt about Jack’s rather sudden return. The whole thing smelled fishy to him, but Jack brought a little life back to Gabe’s eyes so he decided not to make a big fuss about it. The captain hadn’t much cared for Jack even before he thought his ex-commander was dead, and even though Jack seemed to be less of an up-tight asshole, the pair would be going on long walks together any time soon. Jesse was going to make an effort to be nice, for Gabe if nothing else, but he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he had in his belly. The guy was…different. Not so different that he wasn’t Jack anymore, but different enough for Jesse to find it suspicious.

Gabe had said that the blonde was acting like he had before SEP messed his head up, and attributed it to Jack getting some ‘time off’ during his captivity or maybe that the cold was jostled out of his eyes after nearly being eaten a bunch, but Jesse wasn’t so sure that was it. He generally trusted his instincts on most matters and his instincts were screaming that something was wrong.

Tom’s warning of “ _things aren’t as they seem_ ” sure didn’t help but exacerbate matters. Maybe he’d been trying to tell Jesse something… Maybe…that Jack wasn’t Jack, after all. The Institute utilized synths to replace people, just like they’d used his pal to replace the original Thomas Stultz. So…maybe Jack was a synth there to spy on them, too? The accusation was a doosie and Jesse wasn’t about to share it with anyone, much less Gabriel, unless he had concrete evidence. He needed to find a smoking gun.

So while Jack was gone looking for Tom with his little posse and while Gabriel was taking a late night bath, Jesse had eased his way in to Jack’s temporary quarters to look for any signs that he might be a synth, though Jesse had no friggin’ idea what that would even constitute. He’d poked around and checked the terminal and did everything that he could think of but could find no evidence to back his distrust. Drats. He’d have to just keep an eye on ‘Jack’ and see if he could did anything up. In the meantime, Jesse needed to act completely normal to make sure that their guest didn’t suspect that he was on to him.

He’d had enough time to raid Tom’s office as well, but had again come up with a big ol’ goose egg. Jesse hacked Tom’s personal terminal and read every single damn boring e-mail there but found nothing noticeably suspicious.

Christ. These Institute spies really were top-notch.

Disappointed, Jesse sat in Tom’s room for a little while after that, his mind wandering to his friend and wondering if he was all right. As sad as it was that Jesse might never see him again, if that’s what it took for the guy to be happy and safe, Jesse was going to do everything he could to make sure that no one found out the truth. The fact was that had he found any real evidence against the synth, Jesse had been prepared to destroy it. Tom was a good guy and he deserved to be remembered as the nerdy, OCD neat-freak second in command of Blackwatch, not as some dirty synth spy sent to mess with them.

Luckily, Jack returned with news that he’d been unable to find any sign of Tom. “It’s like he vanished in to thin air. If I had to guess, he was trying to cover his tracks so that the raiders couldn’t follow him,” Jack sighed and poked his fork at his fried tatos. “He probably intended to find a place to recuperate his strength.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell Jesse?”

“We were in a firefight, boss,” the captain shrugged. “If Tommy didn’t wanna be followed, it wouldn’t have been smart to yell it in a friggin’ crowd of raiders.”

“He ran,” Gabriel growled and tapped his finger against the picnic table. “That skinny fucker RAN.”

They were at dinner and Gabriel was finishing up a slab of raw stingwing meat he’d served himself. How the guy managed something so spongey and salty was beyond Jesse; better than human, though… Gabe pretended that’s not what his meal of choice had become but Jesse was wise to him. He just kept telling himself that it wasn’t Gabe. It was the sword. Machete. Kremvh’s Tooth. Whatever the damn thing was. Jesse needed to get the weapon away from the Gunner as soon as he could manage it, but it would prove a challenge with Jack being near him all the dang time.

“You don’t know that,” Jack argued before Jesse could even open his mouth. “Tom had no reason to run, Gabe. Claiming that a Gunner went AWOL is a serious accusation and you shouldn’t throw that around lightly. Based on our current knowledge, the worst case is probably that he was injured and passed away somewhere. KIA is my personal guess. Not great, either way. Thomas was an excellent soldier, and a good friend.”

“Bullshit,” Gabriel curled a lip, his spiking aggression catching Jack off-guard. He’d only just returned and hadn’t seen the changes in the lieutenant yet. “He _ran_.”

“You don’t know that.”

Gabriel slammed a fist onto the table hard enough to splinter the wood panels but Jack didn’t even cringe at the outburst. “HE _RAN_ , JACK! I was fucking expecting this. Stultz has been acting strangely for months now.”

“Gabe, relax.”

Jesse slid down in the seat of his chair some and tipped his hat, offering the blonde a cautionary shake of his head while Gabriel’s face was turned.

Jack didn’t take the hint. “It’s not like Tom to just run, and you don’t have any proof that he did.”

Jesse suppressed a concerned whine. He could practically hear the sizzling and snapping of Gabriel’s nerves. Even the golden-boy couldn’t calm the commander down when he got irritated like this.

“I DON’T NEED PROOF!” Gabe boomed.

Jack just kept his blue eyes and tone cool as a cucumber in a bucket of ice. “Yes, Gabe. You really do.”

“NO. I REALLY DON’T, JACK.”

“You’re acting like a child.”

Gabriel stood, every inch of his body taught. People died when he got this way, and right now it was looking like his sights were set on ripping the blonde’s pretty head off his shoulders, but Jack remained bewilderingly calm and composed even as Jesse shrank further down his chair and wished he could curl up so tight that he’d just vanish altogether. “Do you have a PROBLEM, Morrison?”

Jack arched an eyebrow. “I do take just a little offense that you’re accusing who was once my second in command and very close friend of running off on a mission for literally no reason without any proof to back your claim. So yes, I have a problem with this little tantrum of yours.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood from the bench, all eyes on the room on the pair of iron-wills. “How about we talk about this somewhere privately, before you throw the bench through a wall or something?”

Jesse couldn’t see Gabe’s expression from this angle but if the look of pure, unadulterated dread on his peers’ faces was any indication, it was a bad one. But instead of ripping Jack’s pretty face off to wear like a damn Halloween mask, Gabriel snarled and snatched him by the collar before whipping around and dragging the maybe-synth out the door off towards his quarters.

Jesse and the rest of the crew scrambled up and huddled around the cracked windows in hopes of catching a glimpse of the conversation across the way. The Gunners watched Gabriel shove the blonde into his quarters and close the door before dropping the dark green drapes. The group groaned and grumbled while dispersing, some returning to finish their meal but most of them making a run for it. No one wanted to be in the Mess Hall if Gabe returned.

Jesse shook his nerves off before returning to his post to the range with some of the guys on their aim. He could only pray that Jack was able to knock some sense in to the lieutenant.

About an hour later and he caught sight of Jack leaning against the side of one of the shacks. Jesse glanced around to make sure that the commander was nowhere in sight before jogging over. The blonde was nursing a cigarette down to the filter, blue eyes staring in to oblivion. “Hey, Jackie,” Jesse greeted with a tilt of his hat.

The fog in Morrison’s cerulean eyes cleared as his mind returned to focus. “Hm? Oh. Hey, Jesse,” he managed a smile but Jesse could tell that he was on-edge. “How’s it going?”

“Aside from McCoy bein’ a downright awful shot, I guess it’s goin’ hunky-dory.”

“ _Hunky-dory_ ,” Jack parroted. He shook his head and smiled in to his cigarette before flicking it to a pile of rubble shoved alongside the shack's wooden stairs. “Holy shit, I really missed you.”

“Y’did?”

“Yeah. Not many people talk like you. It’s...cute.”

“Uh… Well… Thanks, I guess,” Jesse laughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Boy, whatever happened to you at the Capital sure opened you up, didn’t it?”

“I learned a lot of lessons while nearly being tied to a spit, Jesse, and one of them was to try and relax a little. That and being ashamed of who I am won’t get me anywhere. So…I just accepted it. It was easier than I imagined, once I really let it go. I carried a lot of baggage but it’s all been managed, I think. Well, not _completely_ ,” he shrugged, “but I’m more comfortable with myself nowadays. Turns out the whole experience was a real godsend.”

“It’s good to see you not strugglin' with it no more, Commander,” Jesse smiled, and he meant it. He still hadn’t forgiven Jack for bailing on them and igniting Gabriel’s downward spiral of gloom and death, but he didn’t want to see the guy suffer, neither.

“You can just call me Jack.”

“Jack—right. So, uh…how’d things go with Gabe?”

“Honestly? Not so great,” the blonde scrunched his face and lit another cigarette. “He’s determined that Tom went AWOL. Has no proof or anything to back it up, just a ‘gut feeling’, which is complete trash and he knows it. Gabe sent out a search party of his own to try and track Tom down. Wants his head on a spike or some crap like that,” Jack frowned and his eyes glazed over again with all that internalized thinking. “There’d been rumors floating that Gabe was unhinged. I was hoping that’s all they were—rumors—but it’s obvious that’s not the case. How long as he been this way?”

“Several months, I guess.” Jesse stuffed his hands into his jeans and leaned against the wall beside Jack before bumming a cigarette.

“Is he killing his men?” Jack asked and lit it for him.

“Yup,” Jesse puffed. “Killed about twelve so far, mostly for darin' to stand up to 'im. But I bet there’ll be a handful or two or three more until someone gathers the gall to stop ‘im.”

“Shit…”

“Tell me about it….”

“Why are you still here?”

Jesse glanced at the inquisitive blonde and shrugged as though the answer were obvious. “'Cause I don’t abandon my family or friends. Gabe’s my pa and these folks might as well be my own blood, assholes or otherwise. I ain’t keen on leavin’ any of ‘em, even if it gets me skinned alive.”

Jack leaned his head back against the wall and released a tired sigh. “I’m sorry, Jesse... I know what I did fucked things up. That’s the whole reason I came back—I want to fix things. But listen, I know that I didn’t exactly treat you the best because I was jealous of you, but I regret it. You were always a good soldier. I was a complete ass and I hope that you can forgive me.”

“You were jealous?” Jesse blinked in open shock at the admission. “Of _me_?”

“Sure. I’d never had to compete for Gabriel’s attention before you came along. I was still struggling with all of my feelings and my issues with inadequacy and confusion. It just...set me off, I guess. I didn't know how to handle it and I took those negative feelings out on you. But that’s no excuse for treating you like garbage, and I’m sorry.”

“Oh… Well… Damn… Apology accepted, partner," Jesse smiled and tipped his hat. "Thanks.”

“No problem, Jesse.” Jack smiled all gentle-like and Jesse could suddenly see what Gabe had seen in the blonde. When he wasn't being a complete and total tool, Morrison was a beam of pure friggin' sunlight. Jesse figured that if he looked too long at that bright smile that he might just get sunburned cheeks.

“So," the captain made an attempt to smoothly avert his gaze but figured he came across lookin' like a demure teenage girl, "do you really think you can save Gabe?”

“I don’t know,” Jack admitted and graciously turned his eyes towards the sky, relieving Jesse of those pristine blue orbs. “He’s all over the place. I’ve never seen him this bloodthirsty before, but I’m going to at least try to divert some of his aggression. I’ll take him out on ops and you can keep things balanced here for now"

"Me? Why me?"

"Well, with Tom gone, Gabe’s going to have to make you second lieutenant.”

“LIEUTENANT?” Jesse nearly choked on his cigarette. “ME? No, no, no! I can’t do none’f that bullarchy! I ain’t built for high management!”

“You’ll do just fine, Jesse,” Jack chuckled. “I have absolute confidence in your skills. You’ve spent enough quality time with Tom that you should know by now how to run the camp smoothly on your own. It’s in everyone’s best interest that Gabriel’s not be here and someone has to run things. I give you my word that I’m going to figure out a way to fix him.”

The captain chewed on his lip, uncertain whether or not he could trust a guy that might be an Institute spy. And even if Jack weren’t a fake human, he wasn’t the sort of person to believe in anything like a weapon possessing someone. Tom was gone and Jesse was on his own. “Thanks, Jack. Gabe needs us both and I ain’t goin’ nowhere. You can count on me to do whatever it takes to help fix 'im.”

“All right,” Jack nodded, “but know that I wouldn’t blame you if you ran.”

“Do you think Gabe ran Tom off?”

“I don’t know… It’s not like Tom. Did you talk with him? Did he ever mention anything to you?”

“Naa,” Jesse lied and pulled his hat off to run a hand through his messy hair. “Tommy never said nothin’ to me. I dunno what happened. If he did run then he didn’t tell me he was gonna do it. …It sucks... Stultz was my friend. I dunno which is worse, him bailin’ or him dyin’,” the teen grumbled and kicked at a stone before covering his face with his hat. “Don't matter much, I guess. Tommy ain’t here and I’m upset ‘bout it either way.”

“I’m sorry, Jesse. Maybe he’ll come back.”

Jesse shook his head. “It's really best he don’t, with the boss so angry at 'im. I don’t want Tommy to get killed, even if he did run. He should just stay away, if he’s alive at all.”

Jack clasped a hand to his shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Jesse," he grinned. "Gabe and Tom are lucky to know you.”

“Thanks, Jack. I guess you’re not so bad after all.”

The blonde chuckled and snatched him around the neck and rubbing his fist into the youth’s dark hair.

“NO!” Jesse yelped and struggled to get away as Jack laughed and their peers stopped to watch and point at the show. “NOT A NOOGIE! _AUGH_!”

Jack released him and Jesse tumbled to the dirt with a strangled yelp before glowering at the handsome soldier. Jack scooped up Jesse's hat and flashed a shit-eating grin as he plopped it on his head, reminding the cowboy of Tom with how he ran his long fingers along the edge. “Maybe I’ll keep this.”

“You will most certainly darn well not!” Jesse wailed and clung to the man’s long leg.

Jack started to walk, dragging him like a whining toddler, and the young captain wondered if this were how things might have been had they met before SEP.

He could get used to it.

 

A few weeks passed by with no sign of Tom and for that Jesse was grateful. He and Jack were getting along well but they didn’t spend too much time alone together due to the blonde babysitting the ever-cranky Gabe. Jesse had been crossing his fingers that Jack’s presence would offset the man’s violent tendencies but that lasted a whole whopping forty-eight hours. If anything, things had gotten worse. Gabe was emphatically possessive of Morrison and had exploded more than a few times on soldiers just for talking to or looking at the fella. Jack didn’t know what the hell to do about it, always looking awkward or uncertain of how to handle the situation he now found himself. He’d stand up for people but it never seemed to help matters at all.

Gabe was broken and not even Jack could fix him.

Jesse quietly entered the Mess Hall while trying to remain as cool and casual as possible. Gabe was lounging in his seat at the dinner table, looking a bit haggard from not sleeping for five solid days but at least relaxed. The rest of the team besides Jack had already bailed, no doubt scampering off like a bunch of radroaches the moment the commander had entered the room, not that Jesse blamed them.

“Evening, Jesse,” the blonde greeted.

“Don’t mind me,” Jesse whistled as he passed by the back of Gabriel’s chair. “Just grabbin’ some supper.”

The Lieutenant tossed a rusted combat knife into an old dartboard across the room, alongside a good seven others of various shapes and sizes. “Corporal Colter informed me that you were late to your rounds this afternoon,” the observation fell dry, his ruddy eyes kept to the opposite wall as he produced another knife.

Jesse could feel Jack’s cerulean gaze settle on him, a silent warning that Gabe was in a sour mood. “Yeah, well Colter’s a goober lookin’ to get me into trouble,” he mumbled and began to rummage through the pantry for any spices. “You know the man hates my hide for some reason. Probably because I keep harassin’ ‘im at the firin’ range.” Jesse grabbed some corn and began stripping it, tossing handfuls into a pan he’d prepared with some cooking oil. “The man’s got a hard-right lean.  I keep tellin’ ‘im, Colter,” Jesse swiveled and aimed his spatula at the dead-eyed Gabriel, bobbing and flailing it conversationally while leaning against the bar, “just aim a little to your left and you’ll hit your mark, but he just starts huffin’ and fussin’ and spittin’ at me. I dunno. Guess he’s just a bit salty that some kid’s a better shot than ‘e is.”

Gabe snorted and threw another knife into the dart board. “That sounds like Colter. But don’t let it happen again, mijo. I mean it.”

“I wasn’t late,” Jesse insisted as he returned his attention to his dinner. “But sure thing, boss,” he held a hand up before putting it over his heart. “I give you this cowboy’s word.”

Gabriel snorted but went quiet, angling just enough to watch the young captain cook out of the corners of his eyes. Jesse would normally prefer the radio on for cooking, but he knew Gabriel had decided very recently that he hated that, so he began whistling, unable to help himself in the awkward silence.

Ten minutes later and he’d made a healthy portion of brahmin steak tips. He slid two more plates towards the pair of men and set three beers on the table before sitting across from Gabriel in one of the chairs he knew didn’t have uneven legs.

“I never said that I wanted food."

Jesse flashed a grin, knowing that Reyes couldn’t resist a good meal. “Yeah, well, guess I made too much.”

“Don’t waste our resources,” Gabriel growled but began eating.

“Mighty sorry, boss,” the second lieutenant tipped his hat apologetically before grabbing a clean fork. “Won’t happen again.”

Jack shot him a grateful look but Jesse pretended not to notice, not eager to accidentally trigger Gabriel's envy.

Throughout the quiet meal, Jesse carefully scoped out his target: Kremvh’s Tooth was tucked in Reyes’ right holster, one he’d made specifically for the stupid sword. Knife. Machete. Whatever it was. The crooked, misshapen blade was hidden, but its linen-wrapped handle could clearly be seen, looking out of place against the soldier’s all-black getup.

Jesse chewed on his lip, deliberating his plans and allowing his gaze to linger for a second too long.

“The hell are you looking at?”

Jesse blinked out of his thoughts and fell back into an easy smile, shaking his head and dropping his brown eyes back towards his dinner before taking a final bite. “Just admirin’ the view, boss.”

Jack rolled his pretty eyes and stood to clear the table before Reyes could tell him to.

Gabriel was hawking at him and it took every bit of control he had not to get up and leave from under the weight of his ruddy gaze, but Jesse had never ran from anything before and he sure as hell wasn’t about to start now. He released a slow, relieved breath through his nose when the larger Gunner stood. “Your watch starts at four,” Gabe reminded grittily as he passed, his shadow somehow colder than it should have been. Jesse squirmed in his chair as the hair on his tanned arms stood on end just before a wide hand landed on his shoulder with a firm pat that would probably leave a bruise. “Don’t be late,” Gabe purred and vanished around the corner, Jack trailing closely behind.

A minute passed before he allowed his face to drop into his hands. Jesse leaned forward until his forehead hit the table, his hat pooling on top.

He had to do something—it was now or never.

 

It was half-past midnight and warm as hell for an October night in the Commonwealth. Jesse fanned himself with his hat and sipped his bottle of purified water, half-awake from the dullness of the evening. Gunners came and went, moving about the camp with their duties and swapping positions at timed intervals he was all too familiar with by now. Floodlights rolled back and forth, discouraging any brave or stupid raiders from thinking they’d get lucky trying to sneak in along the walls they’d set up around the camp.

He’d seen Jack retire just before he took his adopted post, easily spotting his pale hair when he moved around the camp and vanished into his old quarters to crash for the night, having taken them over the week after Tom vanished. Gabriel should be following soon, after his late night ritual of inspecting the troops and getting a bath, but Jesse hadn’t spot him yet. Gabe could be harder to see in the dark, with his blacks and greys than Jack’s bright cobalt and white, but Jesse had an eye for spotting the Lieutenant even in the dark corners he seemed to lurk in.

Like clockwork, Gabe sauntered out of the old house they’d converted into a bath, dressed down to his sweatpants and a hoodie for the evening, just in time for Jesse first break. Perfect.

Jesse nodded his hat to the private coming to cover him for his break and headed down towards the kitchen, like he always did, before slipping behind the back of the building, dropping low and watching Gabriel head towards Jesse crooked shack he called home. After one, two, three checks to make sure he wasn’t being watched, Jesse pulled his hat off and kept low as he slunk against the wood and peered into the window.

Gabe was sipping at a bottle of whiskey, back to him, Kremvh’s Tooth in full view in his left hand. The room was kept dark with a few ragged drapes of old bedsheets but the etchings of strange figures and letters that Jesse could only describe as runes could clearly be seen decorating his inner walls. Gabe stabbed the blade into the wooden table and sat down to go through some paperwork before a soldier banged on his door loudly enough that Jesse thought his heart would burst clear from his chest. The gunslinger dropped from the window, hat to his heart like he could muffle the pounding sound on blood in his ears.

“Private Kersch,” Gabriel snapped, “this better be damn fucking good to be bothering me so late.”

“Sir, yes sir. We’ve spotted Corporal Jennings’ troupe along the outskirts,” she answered.

“And what the fuck are you telling me about this for?”

Jesse exhaled a shaky, terrified breath into the warm morning air. It was now or never. _You can do this, Jesse,_ he steeled himself before beginning his creep around back towards the opposite, open window.

“Sir, the way they’re moving on us...I believe that they’re scouting. It’s not exactly news that Corporal Jennings doesn’t care for us, and I believe that they’re probing for vulnerabilities in our defenses. It could be trouble.”

Gabriel cursed and stormed out to follow her, leaving a literal open window for Jesse to take his chances.

Once certain the lieutenant was out of sight, Jesse reached through the window and snatched the weapon off the desk, yanking it from the wood and jetting off into the night. Gabe would know something was up when Jesse didn’t show up after his break or when he came back to his room, whichever came first, so the teenager knew that had to move fast. He needed to get the damn thing as far away from Gabe as humanly possible—for everyone’s sake.

And so, armed only with Peacekeeper and wearing only the clothes on his back and the ratty cowboy hat on his head, Jesse made a run for the border. He’d take the thing all the way to the Capital Wastelands and then beyond, if he had to. It was stupid, so damn stupid, running out alone into the wilderness alone, but he literally had no other choice. Gabriel’s sanity was on the line and he’d be damned if he didn’t do everything in his power to save it.

About thirty minutes into his mad escape, Jesse forced himself to take a moment to lean against a tree and catch his breath. He turned the weapon in his hand and went about nervously inspecting it. After a year of Gabe going bonkers from holding the thing, it hadn’t immediately occurred to Jesse that touching it might have similar effects on even him. But the weapon seemed…unexpectedly innocuous. No glowing. No freaky voices in his head. No nothing that he’d expect from a hell-blade dug up from a black-watered well. But burning… There was a _burning_ —as though he were grabbing hold of a hot-iron with his gloves. The heat steadily increased until smoke began to sizzle and crackle from the wooden handle as though it were threatening to catch fire. He yelped and dropped the artifact, cursing and ripping his smoking glove off to check his hand. No burns, thankfully, but there were now clear patches of holes in the leather of his gloves.

“The sam-hell did you get yourself into, Gabe?” Jesse murmured to himself. He stooped to scoop the weapon back up with as little contact as possible and slid the long blade in to the weapon strap on his back hip. He didn’t have time to consider the legitimate oddness of whatever had just happened; he had to keep moving.

Six vigilant hours out of Blackwatch later and the sun had begun its sluggish creep over the mountains, bringing with it a haze of orange and yellow that began to blanch the deep blues and blacks in the sky as night withdrew. He should have already crossed the border by now but could tell that he hadn’t. He must have gone too far south in his effort to avoid any Gunner or raider camps.

As though to emphasize his error, there was a thunderous clap in the distance of an approaching rad-storm sweeping northward. There dull ache of radiation began to fill in the air, nearly tangible in its density, and it was around then that Jesse realized he had no Rad-X or Rad Away on-hand. But there was no use crying over spilled milk; it wasn’t like he could outrun the damn weather. He’d be lucky if he didn’t light up like a firefly by nightfall.

Jesse tugged his bandanna over his face and tied it before grabbing the binoculars from his back pocket. He made a long, slow sweep of the horizon as the sun domed over the hills and cursed under his breath. There, clear as day, were the tell-tale ruins of the old world dotting a barren hellscape, draped with a sick, limey sheen. He was at the edge of the friggin’ Glowing Sea, only a few miles out from where the bombs has eradicated all life in the Commonwealth two centuries ago. Yeah. He’d definitely ventured way, way too far south. He needed to adjust his trajectory. If he took even one step in to the green clouds, he’d be cooked alive in minutes.

“And where exactly do you think you’re going, cowboy?”

Jesse’s blood flashed cold in his veins, freezing him in place as he stared out at the expanse of radiation-doused ruins. “Not sure,” he swallowed down a ball of bile threatening to choke his air off. “Somewhere far from you, but I reckon that ain’t the case no more.”

“I liked you the best, you know,” Gabriel sighed as Jesse dared to slowly turn, the sunrise and storm blooming in golds and reds and greens behind him. He’d like to think he at the very least looked pretty badass for his final hour. Gabe was still in his sweatpants and a black hoodie, armed with his shotguns strapped in a black X on his back, his eyes now blood-red and simmering below a pair of angry brows. “And here I thought you were one of the people I could actually trust. I saved your life. Trained you. Gave you a home. And what do you do? You STEAL from me,” he growled in pure disgust. “You sure turned out to be a hell of a disappointment.” The words threatened to knock Jesse on his ass but he stood his ground. He could feel the sword quivering against the small of his back, beckoning its owner, and the strange reds of Gabriel’s eyes flared brighter as the Gunner smirked, teeth jagged and sharp. “You started as a nobody and you’re going to DIE as a nobody. No one will remember you, Jesse. No one will bury you and NO ONE will mourn you. Now then,” Gabriel reached out a large hand expectantly, “return the artifact to me and I’ll be kind enough to make this quick.”

“Nah,” Jesse grinned and took a step back. This really felt trite: the good cowboy pressed against a cliff, facing probable death from his own pa. “This thing’s been nothin’ but trouble for you, boss, and I won’t let it mess with you no more, come hell or high water! It has to be destroyed!”

“You have no idea what you’re yammering about, boy. It can’t be destroyed—not by me, you, or any still-living god. Give me the machete. NOW.”

“Machete?” Jesse frowned. “Well, shit… Is that what this is? Dagnabit… Y’mean that Stultz had it right all along? Frig… I had good money down that it was a sword… That Tom was always a good-for-nothin’ know-it-all…”

Gabriel pulled one of his shotguns off his back and pumped it once making sure it was loaded. “You have ten seconds, mijo, which I find to be more than generous. Trust me when I say that’s ten more seconds than anyone else would get.”

“Com’on, Gabe! This ain’t you! This ain’t the guy that rescued me or raised me! Can’t you see that this thing’s been messin’ with your head?”

“Seven seconds.”

Jesse pulled the strange machete from his back and brandished it, making the jagged blade sing eerily through the air. Gabriel’s expression remained cold but the heat in his eyes bolstered something furious, the black holes of his pupils suddenly folding in on themselves until they were actual slits. Jesse figured he’d never been so scared in all of his life. “It’s turnin’ you into a monster!” he wailed desperately. “A real-live, honest-to-god MONSTER, Gabe! I've heard the wails of you eatin’ live critters when you thought nobody was lookin’! But I was! It’s KILLIN’ you, jefe! It’s making you a DEMON! Don’t listen to it! FIGHT BACK!” Jesse managed to swallow back a yelp when Gabriel fired a deafening shot into the dirt at his feet.

“Three.”

“Gabe, NO! PLEASE!” he begged, on the verge of hysteria, but the calcified hatred in Gabriel’s red eyes betrayed no signs of hesitance.

“Two.”

This was it. The fight was over.

Gabriel Reyes was gone, his humanity’s throat cut by this stupid sword. Machete. Fuck.

“One.”

“Let me HELP you!”

“It’s too late for that, mijo.” Gabriel outstretched his hand once again, nails extended to black claws and eyes smoldering like hellfire, “Give me the weapon. This is your last chance.”

Jesse grit his teeth and shook his head, readying his hand over Peacekeeper’s handle. “No.”

“Have it your way then.”

The two men locked eyes just as Jesse drew his gun.

He wasn’t sure when he’d hit the ground, but when he came-to he was staring blearily up at Gabriel’s devilish face, his eyes still bright red but now with black bleeding into the whites like a bloody, dying sun. Jesse’s mind came in and out of focus, Gabriel’s words distant and drowned by the shrill ringing and blood drumming in his ears. The teenager groaned and rolled his head, scrunching his eyelids as he struggled to find focus.

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself. I’m going to have to get a new fucking hoodie after this,” Gabriel’s grumbling solidified in the haze, but alongside the lucidity came a dim pain in his left arm that gradually burned sharper and nastier. He was definitely wounded. How bad it was Jesse wasn’t certain, and he didn’t think he much wanted to know. That close, Gabe’s shotguns could deal more than just a bit of damage. The fact that he was alive at all was amazing, honestly. His commander rarely let anyone off with their heads intact. “Next time, aim for the heart, not the shoulder,” Gabriel scolded and moved around him. “Less cloth, more meat. You know better than to assume I’d drop my gun.”

“Didn’t wanna…kill you…” Jesse risked opening his eyes and was met with a deep spray of red all around him, fanning out and pooling where his left arm should have been. Flesh and splinters of bone were all that was left of his exploded limb. That and his hand, which Gabriel tossed away once he’d stooped to reclaim his machete from the dirt.

Tears welled in his eyes. Not because of the pain, which was something awful, or the loss of his arm, but because Gabriel was glowering down at him, cold and hard and distant, and without a scrap of remorse. Crimson bloomed at the shoulder-joint where Jesse’s shot had gone clean through, and dark smoke sizzled oddly around the healing wound. Jesse figured it had to hurt like hell, but Reyes only rolled his shoulder like the pain was nothing. Then again, Gabe had suffered a good deal worse damage than a gun-shot wound.

“I’d have thought you’d be more self-preserving than this.”

“Couldn’t help myself, boss,” he smiled before spitting blood pooling in his mouth to get some of the irony tang out. “Just couldn’t kill yuh… Guess I just don’t have the heart for it…”

Gabriel snorted indignantly, the sound ugly but tickled. “You think too much, kid. Haven’t I told you that? Told you again and again to stop thinking, thinking, _thinking_ so god damn much. Maybe if you’d just fucking listened to me for once in your pathetic waste of a life, we wouldn’t be in this situation. But here we are.”

“Yeah… Here we are…”

Gabe put his boot on Jesse’s chest, pressing a low whine from the youth. “Goodbye, mijo. I loved you,” Gabriel sounded almost rueful before he roughly shoved Jesse off the side of the cliff, sending him tumbling down the hill and rolling into some radioactive sludge on the lip of the Glowing Sea.

Jesse could feel the radiation begin to sting his exposed skin as the storm rolled in, thunder clapping ominously in the distance. All strength to fight back, the will to get up, was gone. He pressed a breath through his nose and allowed his exhausted, wilted brain to wind itself down, ready for the lights to go out in the bar for good this time.

This was going to be his grave.

In his mind’s eye he saw Gabriel’s hand outstretched towards him, the promise of a new life and a real home. Jesse took it just before the figure burst into an inky cloud and swathed him, towing him down into the cold black.

 

He’d been stuck in the pitch for was felt like forever, though he honestly assumed there was no end to the cold tar all around him. So when there was a split of warm light as his eyelids cracked, to say he was surprised would be one hell of an understatement. He wasn’t supposed to wake up.

“Oh!” a soft voice chimed from somewhere that Jesse couldn’t place. “You’re waking up,” it came closer. “Please, be very careful, Mr. McCree. You’re recovering from your injuries and lost a lot of blood. Take it slowly.”

“How the heck do you know my name?” he managed. Jesse’s voice was thick and sluggish with sleep, same as his muscles. He felt rigid and sore all over, a leaden ache weighing on every damn one of his cells and holding him to what felt like a bed.

 “It was on your dog-tags,” the stranger replied. “Captain Jesse McCree, correct? You’re a Gunner, under the command of a…” there was a brief moment or two of hesitation, “Lieutenant Gabriel Reyes? Is that correct?”

“Used t’be the case, yup,” he winced as he attempted to sit up but couldn’t even find the strength to will his abs to clench. A sharp pan flashed through Jesse’s shoulder and he remembered he was one arm short. “Well, shit… I’m supposed to be dead,” he grumbled.

The stranger gave a slow, thoughtful hum. “Well, I could always take you back,” he offered, a smile in his gentle voice.

Normally, Jesse might have laughed at that but the mood was still a bit sour. “Not funny, doc,” his face scrunched. “Too soon.”

“Ah. My apologies. Well, you’re quite lucky that I found you when I did. You might have bled out, otherwise.”

“Much obliged, uh…? Who are you, anyways?” Jesse forced his eyes to open again and gazed upon the odd beauty of his salvation.

The stranger was leaning over him and dabbing a damp cloth to Jesse’s forehead like a mother caring for her sick child. He had hood on that draped down and framed his long face, the fabric so deep and rich a red that Jesse would’ve sworn the thing was dyed in blood. He looked on the feminine side, Jesse thought, or at least a bit androgynous, with cyan, almond-shaped eyes framed by silvery lashes, and thin silver eyebrows. His skin was a sort of golden bronze, and his forehead was speckled by three lines of odd dots matching the color of his eyes and that looked to probably be tattoos of some sort. Sort of an odd choice, but not unattractive on the fella.

Jesse couldn’t see him very well, the edges of his vision still fogged, and with the golden light behind him, the guy looked sort of like an angel. It sure didn’t help he was beaming down upon him like he were Jesus Christ of Nazareth himself, so full of warmth and sympathy and genuine tenderness that it compelled whatever blood was left in the youth’s body to rush into his cheeks. Who the heck was this guy?

“I am Tekhartha Zenyatta,” he answered and offered a regal bow of his head. Zenyatta brought his slender fingers up into a prayer-like position, making him look even more holy-like.

“Ah… Uh… Interestin’ name you got there, Mr. Zenyatta.”

“Thank you, Mr. McCree,” the holy-man’s white smile brightened, the corners of his blue eyes wrinkling pleasantly. Jesse would swear he’d never seen a color so brilliant before. Even Jack with his clear azure gaze didn’t light a match to the bold florescent shade of cyan in the holy-man’s gaze, so brightly contrasted against the golds of his skin. “I rather enjoy being interesting.”

“Me too,” Jesse pretended not to stare. “People put way too much stake in normalcy, if you ask me.”

“Agreed,” Zenyatta chuckled. “Now then, Mr. McCree, I know it’s difficult but can you sit up at all? You’re quite dehydrated and I’d like to get some clean water in you before your blood turns to syrup.” Again with the jokes. This guy was all right.

“Jesse’s fine. But naa, I don’t think so. Not without help. I’m feelin’ lamer than a duck without its quacker down here. Can hardly talk, much less move. Ain’t easy missin’ an arm, neither.”

“Ah yes, your arm. Your loss is…deeply unfortunate. I do hope that you don’t mind that I cleaned your wound. I had to trim away some excess flesh, but it looks to mend well.”

“Excess flesh,” Jesse’s face scrunched. “Damn… Gabe sure did a number on me…”

“I apologize if that was crude of me. I did not mean to unsettle you.”

“No, no, Doc. It’s all right. I just… The wounds are still fresh, is all, both literally and metaphorically speakin’.”

Zenyatta nodded and moved to assist him in sitting upright, and after some awkwardness and plenty of pain, Jesse was finally leaning against a few straw pillows on the stone wall. He swigged the cool liquid back, eagerly nursing on his second bottle of water as the holy-man checked the stump that had once been his left arm. Jesse desperately tried not to look or squirm under the administrations. Zenyatta’s touch was tender and he was careful not to hurt him any more than necessary while removing the bandages, repeatedly apologizing as he cleaned and re-bandaged the wound.

“Guess it could’ve been worse,” Jesse chuckled to himself. “Least he didn’t take off my shootin’ arm. …Oh, shit! Peacekeeper! You got my gun, holy-man?”

Zenyatta blinked at the term before offering another one of his discreet little grins and nodded. “Ah! Yes! Your gun. Of course.” He stood and cradled his thick sleeves as he moved around, kneeling out of Jesse’s site momentarily before returning with Peacekeeper in hand. “Here you are. I attempted to clean it up for you.”

Relief washed over him as he was handed his gun and he pressed it to his heart and murmured a prayer of gratitude to whatever God was watching. “Thank you,” Jesse breathed, his voice still stressed and husky. “Thanks so much, holy man. For everythin’. I mean it.”

The stranger smiled gently, his cyan eyes bright and amicable. “Of course. I was glad to have found you when I did, Jesse. I would have been very upset had I arrived too late to assist you in your time of need.”

“Where the heck are we, anyways?” Jesse wondered. “Looks like a…cave?”

“I do live in a cave,” Zenyatta giggled. “We are in the Glowing Sea.”

“THE GLOWING SEA?!” he squealed. “HOW?!”

“I shall be more than happy to show you later, once you’re capable of walking. But as your attending physician, I would like to impress that you really should recuperate your strength beforehand.”

Jesse gawked at him in open skepticism before running a hand through his hair. “Holy friggin' shit… You’re really friggin’ serious.”

“I am. I’ve lived here approximately thirty-seven years.”

“THIRTY-SEV— _WHAT_?!”

Zenyatta put his hand to his mouth and stifled a cute little giggle that had Jesse blushing again through his astonishment. “I suppose it has been quite a while.”

“You’re pullin’ my leg now. There’s no WAY you’re any older than thirty-odd, Mr. Zenyatta.”

“I’m fifty-two years old.”

“No friggin’ way! LIAR. You’re a dirty liar, holy man!”

“It’s true,” he laughed.

“Well, then I’d say that you look pretty darn amazin’ for an old man, if that’s the case.”

“Thank you. I eat well.”

“You’re pullin’ my leg, right?”

“Well, maybe just a little bit. You’re very easy to get riled up, Jesse,” Zenyatta laughed softly. “It is quite amusing.”

“But you’re seriously fifty years old?”

“Fifty-two, yes. As of January first this year.”

“Gosh… You look so…uh…young…”

“It’s quite simple a task to look young when one does not age. I have always looked this way and shall continue to do so until I expire.”

Jesse jerked his head back and blinked with confusion. “What? What do you mean, you don’t age? Like…you're immortal or somethin’?”

“I’m not a normal man, Jesse,” Zenyatta allowed gently, still smiling. “I and ninety-nine others like myself were created for beta-testing the beings you know as synths. I was created for the sake of scientific study, primarily on research regarding the union of biometals with flesh, and the way a synthetic brain learns and copes with increasing amounts of memory and raw information. I am abnormal, even amongst my own kind. But as I said, I take pride in and enjoy being unique. There is no one else in the world like me, just as there is no one else in the world like you.”

“Holy shit… How is it that I’ve met TWO synthetic fellas?”

“I may be synthetic but I’m no less a person than you are,” Zenyatta defended, “though not everyone views things that way, sadly. I would like to think that perhaps maybe you do. But you needn’t fear me, Jesse. I mean no harm to you or to anyone else, unless they mean to harm me first.”

“Well, I daresay I know that. If you wanted to, you'd’ve just left me to die in that irradiated ditch back there. And you seem pretty much like a normal-ish fella to me? Talkin’ and smilin’ and all that. You’re a person,” he decided. “See, I got good feelin’s about folks, knowin’ whether or not to trust them and all that jazz, and I got a good feelin’ ‘bout you. You’re a good man, Mr. Zenyatta. I trust you.”

Zenyatta smiled very tenderly. “Thank you, Jesse. I appreciate that very much and shall make certain not to betray your trust. But you said that you have met another synth?”

“Yeah. His name was Tom. He was my friend,” Jesse frowned to himself and dropped his eyes. “He ran away, though. Far away. He didn’t wanna be a spy no more. Tom was a good guy. We were close for a couple of years, but before that I sorta thought he was borin' 'n nerdy... We could’ve been friends all that time but I was a nothin’ but a big ol’ jerk to the guy. I’m kickin’ myself for it now. I miss 'im… A lot… But…he needed to go away and I get that. I only hope he’s happy.”

“I see. That is very thoughtful and unselfish of you, Jesse. It’s good to know that you are so sympathetic to my kind. Most people are not so generous.”

“Course,” Jesse shrugged. “I mean, you ain’t done nothin’ to me worth gettin’ mad about. So, uh…do you have like…gears and stuff under your skin? Or is that too personal a question? Like lookin’ up your skirt or somethin’? I wanted to ask Tommy but didn’t have the guts or the time to, really.”

“It is fine to ask questions,” Zenyatta laughed very softly. “Most synths are just like you, but I have a metal skeleton, amongst other things. Approximately sixty percent of my body mass is the same as your own. I bleed. I dream. I love and I hate. I must eat and sleep and drink to survive, just like other synths and humans. We are not too different, you and I.”

“Okay… I mean, I knew that Tom had to eat and stuff but I was just curious. …And you’re a fella?”

Zenyatta’s cheeks tinged red and he laughed. “Yes, Jesse,” he nodded. “I am a male. Synths are generally created with a defined sex, though I’m positive that there have been exceptions.”

“Hm. Okay. I was just wonderin’, is all. You’re all…uh…pretty. Like sort’f…err…androgynous? If I can say as much without bein’ offensive.”

“It’s quite all right, Jesse. I will not shy away from your questions. And thank you? I think.”

“So how the heck did a fella like you end up in a hell-pit like the Glowing Sea, of all places?”

“That is…a long story,” Zenyatta sighed and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Well I ain’t goin’ nowhere, if you’d care to share. I daresay I’d be glad to listen to a story like that.”

The holy-man averted his bright eyes, considering the request for a moment before he looked back and offered another one of those dazzling but subtle smiles that made Jesse’s insides warm up all nice-like. “My story begins fifty-two years ago in a place called the Institute, back when I was known only as 00-88.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 76 will soon face a choice that will affect Gabriel’s life forever.
> 
> Jesse and Zenyatta will return when Nate’s awake and soldiering his way across the Commonwealth, bringing people together that really have no business being friends. 
> 
> Zen's a bit older in this incarnation because he was made at the very start of the Gen-3 rollout, after Nick but before the final products when the Institute was deciding how they wanted to build the Gen-3s. More will be revealed about him later in this and also in his and Genji's story, "Coming to Terms".
> 
> Jesse's POV and story continues in "When Coyotes Meet Dragons", where he and Hanzo cross path once again.


	13. Oblivion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 76 tries to save what he can of Gabriel’s humanity.  
> TRIGGER WARNING: blood/gore

McCree had been such a damn idiot, stealing the weapon like that. And all alone. He’d been rash but admittedly courageous to take such a risk, banking that Gabriel wouldn’t have enough heart left to kill him, but everything that 76 had seen indicated that wasn’t going to be the case. Gabe’s patience had thinned enough that he’d threatened even 76 a few times with such legitimate vehemence that the synth was certain that he’d actually go through with it one of these days.

It was late afternoon by the time that he saw Gabe again—and _only_ Gabe. The Gunner was still in his sweatpants and hoodie from the night before but showed no signs of any battle-damage, save for an already-healed bullet-wound to the left shoulder.

Patrolling Gunners stiffly greeted their commander at the gates but quickly gave him a wide birth, several of them exchanging terrified glances and many hiding away.

76 approached the irritated lieutenant and took note of the blood-soaked Kremvh’s Tooth in his left hand. He didn’t see what had everyone so worked up until he got close enough to get a good look: Gabriel’s eyes were a florescent, furious red. And not a irritated around the iris sort of red, either—his eyes were a literal crimson, and the whites were half-black. What the hell?

76 did his best not to stare too obviously at those strange, hideous eyes. “Where’s Jesse?”

“Dead,” Gabriel scowled.

The blonde felt his face blanche. This was his worst-case scenario. Shit. “Dead?” he spat. “What the hell do you mean _dead_?”

“I mean that I KILLED that traitorous little crook,” he snarled. “Looks like it’s just you and me now. Congratu-fucking-lations.”

“You can’t be serious… Gabe, I’m not a Gunner anymore, remember? I’ve been banned from w—”

“Does it look like I give a flying FUCK about Gunner protocol, Morrison?”

76 clenched his jaw and fought back the sudden urge to take a step back. The last thing he needed was to show any signs of weakness. “I suppose not.”

“Welcome back to the fold, Morrison,” he snorted and strode past 76 to stalk towards his quarters. “I’m going to relax. Keep shit in order and don’t let anyone bother me. I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Right.” 76 watched the man’s figure vanish through the door before retreating to sit in one of the command tents. The synth dropped his face in to his hands and tried but failed to come up with an answer to this issue.

All he could do now was continue with the project. Alone.

 

> Report# 10152269:
> 
> The subject has taken a nose-dive for the worse and has killed Captain McCree, the only Gunner here that he'd trusted. Jesse was valuable to keep Gabriel under some degree of control, and I now fear that things shall become much more challenging.
> 
> I’ve been implanting the serum as often as practically possible and in increasing doses but have yet to see any positive results. Reaper has undergone additional physical mutations: his eyes have literally turned red, and his scleras are becoming black.
> 
> I’ll continue to provide regular reports as things progress, but he’s becoming less human with each passing hour.
> 
> Please advise.

“This sounds…bad,” Angela frowned as she read the scrap of paper. “Have you confirmed any of this?”

“I require more biological samples to be certain, but inspection of Dr. Zimmer’s video feed seems to confirm SS-76’s observations. I haven’t yet decided whether I’m excited or nervous. A bit of both, perhaps.”

Angela’s pretty face curled at the edges with what Moira read as frustration. “How can you be excited about your test subject killing people?”

“Dr. Ziegler, _please_ ,” Moira rolled her dual-colored eyes and leaned back in her lab chair. “Gunners are hardly people. Believe me, I worked with them. They’re little better than animals. Besides, I was referring to Gabriel’s rather extraordinary mutations, not his violence. The aggression is linked to his increasingly-undermined sanity, but the mutations are…well, they’re something else entirely.”

The blonde sighed and rubbed a circle in to her left temple. “How are his biological samples looking?”

“The last one I received from SS-76 showed that he is rapidly deteriorating. Even with the influx of next-gen nanites in his blood, the infection continues to spread. My primary concern is that the nanites won’t have the time they require to duplicate enough of his brain matter to render him as a positive candidate for the program. If we don’t get enough in him before the virus exterminates him, this will all have been for naught. Which would deeply irk me.”

“How much do you think is left?”

“There’s no sure-fire way to know. There won’t be any way to test the program until the subject is dead. Theoretically, if there were enough nanites to stabilize him, he’d be perfectly healthy, but he’s obviously still suffering his illness.”

“Obviously,” Ziegler sighed again and dropped her blue eyes in thought. “We can’t continue to expect 76 to put his life on the line like this, day in and day out. If Gabriel killed his adopted son, there’s not much protecting 76 from the same fate.”

“Should SS-76 expire, I’ll have no way to feed the subject any more nanites. At that point, we’d simply send in a Courser party to kill Reaper and finish off any remaining Gunners before recovering all Institute property.”

“I find it unsettling how you speak of these people like your rabbits.”

“And I find it unsettling how you see them as anything more than such.”

Angela scoffed and stood to hastily gather her things off the aluminum table. “If you would excuse me, I have work to do.”

“As do I, Doctor,” Moira swiveled in her chair to snatch a strip of paper from her desk. “Have a good evening.”

Angela frowned at her over her shoulder before vanishing out the door to return to the Med-Bay.

> SS-76,
> 
> Further details regarding the subject’s treatment and evolution, and any changes in personality, behavior, etc are further warranted.
> 
> Continue the treatments, per your original directives, and keep the subject alive for as long as you can at ALL COSTS.
> 
> We CANNOT afford this program to fail.
> 
> Reaper is less expandable than you are.
> 
> Dr. O'Deorain

Moira rolled the paper and tied it off with a blue string before setting the small scroll aside for Dr. Zimmer to have flown out later. She mumbled irritably to herself in Irish and returned her attention to her latest inter-office project.

She and Zimmer were being forced by Father to collaborate on the creation of an upgraded synth: a Courser that would be capable of handling enhanced synth escapees. The reason for this was the high probability that SS-76 would malfunction, given his emotional and physical proximity to Reaper. The Institute required a backup in case Morrison turned on them, because he had made it exponentially clear that he was more than capable of handling the best Zimmer had to offer. And as much as Father praised and favored the blonde, even he knew that it was wise to have a Plan B, and so Moira and Zimmer had been called to combine forces and design a model that could challenge SS-76.

They were still months away from finishing the refining process but she wanted to be certain that every ‘t’ was slashed and every ‘i’ dotted before signing off on it. This was only her second synth design and Moira was determined to show she could better even SS-76’s exceptionalism. Maybe then they’d be forced to put her on the Courser design program.

In the meantime, she still had Gabriel’s situation and the growing gap between herself and Dr. Ziegler to contend with.

Ziegler had become increasingly challenging during the course of Project Reaper, even going so far as to complain about it to Father. She made it clear that she thought the program should be terminated but Moira managed to defend her work, demanding to be permitted to at least see the program through to the end, which Father permitted.

It was a shame to see someone so intellectual and exceptional as Angela to be so stunted in her scientific progress over silly things like ethics. Such trivialities only stood in the way of progress, and Moira found her moral grievances to be insufferable at best, damaging at worst, but she needed Ziegler to solidify the program’s success. Gabriel’s revival would require intense bouts of surgery, and Ziegler’s skilled hands and knowledge regarding bio-mechanical infusions were going to be absolutely critical. Moira was more than capable of surgery and designing all manner of things, but she knew when to admit she’d been best, and Angela Ziegler was the top of her field in that regard. Moira needed her on board, meaning she needed _Father_ on board so that he could continue to force Ziegler’s cooperation since she insisted on being so unnecessarily naïve. But the moment that Father opted out of the program, things would fall apart. The project hinged on her subject reaching the point that they could kill and revive him before Father lost interest and decided to take Ziegler’s side.

Everything was now riding on SS-76’s success.

Absolutely everything.

 

The next three months were a hard three months that 76 wasn’t certain he’d survive. Things just got worse. Every freaking day, things somehow just got worse. Gabriel continued to crumble under the weight of whatever disease was gorging itself on his sanity and 76 just had to watch. Every day he’d find ways to slip Moira’s silver concoction in to the Gunner’s meals and drinks, but apart from maybe making the guy’s skin look a bit on the ashy side, 76 couldn’t see any real changes, at least not any positive ones.

Gabriel gradually became stronger, faster, and even more unhinged. His eyes were now a feverish cherry, their whites consumed by an inky black, and his already sharp teeth had become literal fangs while his fingernails began to elongate and thicken like claws—which he used to rip people apart by hand. Gabe barely even bothered to use Kremvh’s Tooth anymore, keeping it stored in a hidden safe in his quarters. He now preferred to my more physical with his…meals.

He was literally a monster. A god damn monster. And 76 had no idea what the hell to do about it. Moira just kept instructing him to be a good little soldier and feed Gabe her cocktail, which he did. 76 honestly didn’t even known why he was bothering anymore, as Gabe seemed well-past saving, but he just kept low and did his job and prayed that something would magically fix this absolute clusterfuck.

Gabe hadn’t turned on the blonde, at least not yet, so there was that, but 76 wasn’t certain how long it would last. The beast in Gabriel’s skin had days where he was inconsolably bloodthirsty, and those were days that 76 just stayed out of the way and hoped not to get caught in the crossfire. Even Gabriel’s most devoted soldiers had opted to bail by now. Of the original hundred-or-so Gunners at Watchpoint Blackwatch, only sixteen remained—the ones that were paid well enough to deal with the real risk of being eaten alive—the rest had either been killed or ran by now.

The only reason the small group hadn’t been chased off the map by another faction was because virtually everyone was too terrified of Gabriel to give it a try. 76 couldn’t really blame them. Gabe was well-worth being terrified of.

It was late December, a particularly cold and brutal one, when things would finally come to a head.

76 was at the firing range, trying to distract himself by cleaning and testing their inflated cache of firearms. Apart from the static-ridden radio that he’d stationed on the counter to drown out the banter of the soldiers earlier in the day, things were quiet. Radios weren’t permitted when Gabe was in camp but the Gunner, if he could even be called that anymore, was still out on one of his evening hunts.

Every day around five or so, Gabriel would take a few of his nastier soldiers and just kill things. It didn’t particularly matter what those things were—settlers, raiders, other Gunners, supermutants, molerats, whatever—it was all the same, so long as there was blood to be spilled. The synth had tried but no amount of begging would end the bloody expeditions, and he’d quickly opted out of them. Moira and Zimmer attempted to persuade their spy to join the hunts, citing that it was 76’s obligation to monitor their subject, but he wasn’t able to stomach it. They could send a Courser after him, if they wanted to. 76 wasn’t going. It was too painful to see the man Jack had loved, someone who’d once been known for his high moral standards, to act like a damn animal.

Gabriel Reyes was dead and this ‘sickness’ wasn’t going away, but 76 was too much Jack to leave him this way. There had to be something left worth salvaging.

And so he stayed, and he watched, and he reported back, and he cleaned the guns to keep his sanity. Christ, didn’t any of these idiots know how to take care of a plasma rifle?

The blonde leaned his hip against the plywood counter and stripped the next gun, mumbling the words to _It's All Over But The Crying_ on the radio until it was switched off.

“Pretty as a fucking picture, as usual.”

76 glanced up from his work on the rifle and smirked, trying not to give away his anxiety as the bulk of Gabriel’s figure came in to view. It was nine and the sky was a strange, empty, frozen black, like the moon and stars had been swallowed by the same oblivion in Gabriel’s hungry eyes. “Sorry, Reyes. Can’t help it.”

Gabriel had been kind enough to change in to a clean hoodie, at least. He was an absolute monster but he was still sensitive towards his companion and did occasionally make an effort to be ‘normal’, likely bothered by how the blonde so often kept him at arm’s length. “No you fucking cannot,” the red-eyed lieutenant sniggered before leaning beside him. “You should come with me next time, boyscout. It gets boring without you harassing me every god damn minute.” 

“Someone needs to keep the camp in-check when you take half the soldiers on your shenanigans.”

The Gunner growled a hum. “I sense some sarcasm.”

“You leave too often.”

Gabriel flashed his maw of white fangs. Even as a monster he was beautiful, and 76 was only a little disgusted with himself for thinking as much. “Oh? Miss me, mi sol?”

76 finished piecing the rifle back together to busy his hands, turning his back to the demon. “Sometimes,” he admitted.

Gabriel growled a plume of white in to the bitter air and leaned behind him to press his nose into the bristling hairs on the back of the synth’s neck. “When are you gonna cut the shit and let me at you?”

“Maybe when you stop eating people.”

The Gunner snorted into the clean-cut hair before he wrapped his arms around the blonde’s trim waistline and nuzzled him again. “Not happening, cariño. Face it. You’re infatuated with a demon.”

76 forced his focus by grabbing a 10mm to strip and clean. “I never said I was infatuated.”

“You are,” Gabriel growled. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want me just a little. I know that you hate it here, Jackie. You’re too much of a damn goodie-goodie to enjoy this camp much anymore, now that it’s where I want it.”

The synth huffed and shook his head. “You’re right about one thing, Gabe: you are a demon and I do stick around because I care too much and I hate that I can’t leave.”

“That’s three things, cariño.”

76 stuck his tongue out and Gabriel sniggered warmly, reminding the synth of what things should be like.

“So you admit that you want me?”

“You’re my best friend, Gabe. I came back here because I left you when you were vulnerable and I’m not going to abandon you a second time.”

“I’m not _vulnerable_ ,” Gabriel snorted and bit at the back of his neck. “I’ve never been as strong as I am right now.”

76 turned to face him. “If you count strength as the ability to turn yourself off from morality and skin innocent people alive, then I guess you’re pretty damn strong.”

“That’s funny coming from a guy that had practically no emotions for a solid decade.”

“Hah-hah. Funny. I got better.”

“After you died.”

Dread tremored through the synth’s bones and Gabriel grinned down at him, inching closer like a predator sensing weakness. “Maybe you need to die too, then.”

“Threatening me, cariño?” Gabriel sniggered, unintimidated, and put a hand to the synth’s face. “I’d love to see you try. We both know I’d win that fight.”

“I could never hurt you.”

“I know. It’s adorable. And I can’t hurt you. Not really.”

“I doubt that.”

The Gunner immediately frowned. “I hope you’re not seriously suggesting that you believe that I’d be capable of killing you.”

76 risked a glance, knowing that he was exposing his anxiety in full, and was met with a look of real anxiety in those bright reds staring down at him. “You killed Jesse.”

Gabriel clenched his teeth and momentarily flicked his eyes away. “That was…unfortunate. I didn’t want to kill the coyote, but he gave me no choice.”

“You could have just let him go. You didn’t have to kill him.”

“Yes, I did. He had to be an example. There are consequences for breaking rules, Jack, even for my favorites. Everyone applies, and that meant Jesse, too. But you, you’re the only exception.”

“Why only me? Why couldn’t Jesse be an exception?”

“Because I wasn’t in love with him, you idiot.”

76 snorted and looked away to hide the flush of his cheeks, but he could feel Gabriel grin at him. “Right.”

“Fucking adorable,” the monster purred smugly. “I could eat you alive right here and now. I bet you taste like cream corn.”

“Sort of expecting you to eat me any day now.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Oh, fucking relax. I’m not going to harm a pretty blonde hair on that head. And anyone else that dares touch you has me to answer to. You’re safe here.”

“I can defend myself," 76 arched an eyebrow but smirked. "I don’t need you to protect me, Gabe.”

“I know that," Gabriel growled and leered, "but you belong to me. And I belong to you. It’s how it has to be. It’s the only way this can go.”

76 dropped his head against the Gunner’s shoulder. “Right. Of course.”

“Jack, look at me.” Gabriel gripped his chin and gently forced the synth to turn his eyes up, and for a moment 76 could see legitimate tenderness pooling in that red, alien gaze. “I love you. I don’t care if you don’t love me back. Even if you run again, I’ll still love you. Nothing you can do will change that or make me want to harm you, and that includes constantly bitching and shitting all over me and my preferences. I know that you’re a goody-two-shoes moral know-it-all, but that’s part of why I love you. All right?”

His throat clenched and 76 thought he might actually suffocate while he attempted to come up with something, anything, to say back. But before he could formulate a response that wasn’t absolute nonsense, the quiet was shattered by a series of gunshots.

Gabriel moved like a tornado, sweeping them both behind the counter and putting himself behind the synth, an arm around 76’s chest. He could feel the vibrations as Gabe snarled and hissed, eyes glowing and reminding him once again that Reyes wasn’t human anymore. "Who the fuck is stupid enough to come at my camp?”

76 squinted and focused on the gunfire. His ears honed in, removing the attackers’ firearms and separating them from what he knew as plasma and .45s. “7.62s,” he decided. Only one group they’d come across had wielded those rounds. “Gabe… That’s…”

“The Disciples,” Gabriel finished, lips coiled in to a hideous snarl.

“I hadn’t heard any reports of any activity… How the hell could they have crossed the border without any other Gunners noticing?”

“They could have just sold another group their guns.”

“They’d out-arm and out-man us, if it’s the same as before.”

“I FUCKING KNOW THAT,” he snapped. “Now shut the hell up while I come up with a plan.”

76 exhaled a frustrated breath through his nose and tried not to smell the blood and smoke wafting off Gabriel’s clothes, choosing to focus on the gunshots and the mangled cries in the background. Every second they hesitated, they were losing soldiers. Not that any of them were worth saving. The only Gunners under Gabriel’s care were mostly psychos and cannibals that were fine with taking orders, but a life was a life, and 76 wasn’t going to just sit around waiting. That wasn’t a game he liked playing. Luckily, Gabriel hated that game, too.

“Stay here,” he rumbled in to the synth’s hair and jerked to stand, putting a boot on 76’s chest to kick him in to the gravel when the blonde tried to rise with him. “I SAID. STAY. HERE.”

“Like hell I will! You can’t fight a whole raider gang alone!”

“Fucking watch me.” Reyes’ red eyes shimmered just before a boot came down on the synth’s face with such force that he nearly blacked out.

76 cursed and rolled on the ground, struggling desperately to reorient the dizzy mess in his head, but it wasn’t for a solid minute or two later that he finally managed to regain his senses. The world fell back in to place just in time for him to see a woman crash over the counter. She hit the steel beam holding the roof up and crumpled in to a pile of shattered bones, still groaning and hissing despite her mangled shape. In her crooked hand was an mammoth box-cutter that had been modified in to a knife, and she was dressed in those same bloody drapes of blacks and silvers that 76 recognized from Jack’s memories.

There was no mistaking it now. The Disciples were in Blackwatch. And if the shrieks and cries and laughter filling the air told him anything, they were here on a simple mission: to wipe them out.

More cursing and cackling cut what should have been a quiet evening, but he couldn’t make out Gabriel’s voice in the chaos.

76 lunged to check the woman for any weapons, snatching the rifle from her back and ammunition from her black jean pocket while she snapped and growled like a dying animal. She put up a bit of a fight before he could work the knife from her broken fingers, but he used it to put her out of her misery before poking his head over the counter to check for any signs of other raiders. It was pitch black, their overhead lights all blown out or their wires cut, but the synth’s advanced eyes easily made out the shapes in the darkness. At least a dozen silhouettes draped in torn rags and armor were stalking the camp. He could see some kneeling to check misshapen bodies on the ground, likely dead Gunners, but there was no sign of Gabriel.

“Where’s REYES?” a young female voice snapped.  “We’re not fucking leaving until he’s DEAD. Have any of you seen him?”

“I don’t see why that asshole matters,” another female answered, this one sounding older. “We’ve already earned the caps by wiping these losers out. The job’s done.”

Hits on rival stations wasn’t unheard of, or even all too rare. Even with Gabriel being as unhinged as he was, most Gunners that valued their jobs knew better than to break rank and just kill one another. It was more tactical and cost-effective to hire another group to do the dirty work, most often raiders since they were cheap and inconspicuous. But whoever hired the Disciples had certainly put forth an abnormal amount effort to cover their tracks. They’d found a raider gang with legitimate history against Blackwatch to clean out the camp without raising any reasonable suspicion. Contacting raiders and trying to hire them wasn’t a simple or safe task, and these particular raiders much more so. Their contractors really wanted the lieutenant dead. 76 suspected the head Gunners back at the Capital to be responsible, but the who or why hardly mattered.

“This isn’t about the CAPS, you god damn idiot! This is about REVENGE.” A small woman wearing a bladed helmet approached a taller masked figure and jabbed a finger in their face. “Reyes and his vaultie archers killed half of my family! I’ll get back at the Shimadas eventually, but as for tonight, we’re not leaving until Gabriel Reyes is fucking DEAD! And if you try to leave before the job is done, I’ll personally make certain that your skull’s fashioned in to a soup bowl. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am. Well? You heard Nisha! GET YOU’RE ASSES MOVING!”

The synth cursed and dropped back behind the counter.

The rest of the Gunners were all down, meaning that 76 only had to worry about getting himself and Gabriel out of this alive. Facing standard raiders, this wouldn’t be much of a problem, but the Disciples were hardly standard. Most raiders were only looking after themselves, a dependable trait that could be easily exploited, but these raiders were willing to die if it meant killing an enemy in the process. And what’s worse was that he couldn’t be certain that there weren’t dozens more of them hiding, just like they’d done those years before. They'd have been screwed if the Shimadas hadn't shown up when they did, but Sojiro refused to do business with them anymore. They were on their own this time.

Being overwhelmed by their numbers and sheer savagery was a legitimate threat and he couldn’t afford to be rash. He needed a plan, and he needed to find Gabriel. 76 had no clue where the Gunner had vanished off to after trying to knock him out but he’d never leave Jack defenseless, so he had to be somewhere nearby.

76 opened the handmade rifle the dead Disciple had been carrying to find that it had about twelve rounds left. He could take out a few more bodies than that, given some environmental manipulation and lining them up just right, but twelve measly rounds wasn’t going to be enough to deal with them all. He slipped the gun on to a shelf behind the counter and pulled the .45 off of his back before opening a hidden floor safe to take some extra ammunition and a silencer. With any luck, his clip would be more than enough to deal with their numbers, but he swung a freshly-cleaned plasma rifle over his shoulder and snatched enough rounds for a reload, just in case.

The blonde remained attentive to his surroundings while screwing on the silencer and latching on his mask. He cautiously leaned out from behind the counter and activated his infrared, outlining bodies in his HUD in burning reds and yellows against the cold night air. One, four, ten, eighteen raiders, but no sign of Reyes. 76 slowly swept his gaze with hopes of locating his charge, only withdrawing when nearly being spotted by a Disciple lurking around the corner. He sat perfectly still on the dirt, hand ready with the large box-cutter to snatch her and cut her throat if she came to close, but the raider’s shadow passed by without incident and she crept silently around the corner to investigate one of the shacks with another woman.

Once confident that she was gone, he leaned out again and searched until finally finding what he wanted to find when his VATS locked in on Reyes. Gabriel was squat low on the Mess Hall rooftop about twenty feet away, his shape pulsing with cool blues and greens in infrared, emphasizing his rapidly-depleting humanity. 76 opted not to think about that and forced his focus on the mission. A tactical lure to get the raiders in front of the Mess Hall would give the prowling Gabriel an opportunity to deal with a large group of them at once. He'd always been more efficient at dealing with groups of bodies than Jack, whom specialized more in ranged combat.

76 still couldn’t be sure just how many of them there actually were in and around Blackwatch and it had him nervous. It would be risky to expose himself without backup, but he’d just have to take the chance. At least this plan got physically closer to Gabe, and then they could either run together from there in the chaos, or fight them off until either they or the raiders were piles of meat in the dirt. If this was going to be 76’s last stand, he’d prefer to go down fighting back-to-back with Reyes.

He had no intention of dying alone like Jack had.

76 waited patiently until he had a good idea of where all the raiders were in the camp before making his move with the intention of drawing as many as possible. He lunged from behind the counter and locked on to three Disciples within range, dropping them before the women heard the gunfire. A sense of organized chaos erupted with 76 dashing around the corner and the raiders funneling after him. His HUD pinged each body as he moved, keeping count and track of them and filling his screen with nonsense like weather conditions that he didn't give a shit about.

"Heya, handsome," a woman rounded the corner in front of him to block his path, twirling a rusted butcher-knife in her hand.

"Hey," 76 greeted grittily before raising his rifle and blowing a shot close enough to send the splinters of her skull splattering on to the shack several feet behind her. She was still dropping when he plowed over her body, still at full charge, but the raiders behind him didn't seem fazed.

His mad dash only lasted seconds but it felt like minutes, each step redirecting the attention of the attackers and luring them towards him. The synth skidded to a stop, his boots digging up a cloud of dust and powdered snow in front of the Mess Hall. He slammed his back to the metal wall and pretended to be pinned as the crowd gathered. There were definitely more than his previous headcount. His HUD flashed with twenty-three heat signatures in his direct vicinity but it was impossible to sense beyond the walls of the camp with the snowfall interfering with his sensors.

Shit.

A small figure pressed her way through the crowd, one of those huge blades in her right hand, face mostly hidden under that strange bladed helmet—Nisha. The fact that a thirtreen year-old girl could be this brutal pulled 76's curling stomach to his toes. "Finished?" She cocked her head, tone unamused. "Wait a second," she bobbed her knife at him considerately. "You're the pretty-boy. Jack, right?"

76 offered a smug grin and reloaded his gun. "The one and only. I guess that the Gunners that hired you didn't tell you that I was here?"

"No, they didn't," she purred. "Well, it seems as though I've gotten lucky tonight. I can't wait to strip your bones and put your pretty head on a spike, Jack."

"Not in to the whole _pet_ thing like your old boss?"

Nisha's dark lips turned downwards and she scoffed. "No. He was weak and pathetic. I am neither of those things. I am, however, occasionally generous. I'll even let you decide how you want me to kill you: by spilling your intestines on to the grass, or by slashing your lungs and hanging you up to drown in your own fluids. Either way, I'm going to cut those lovely blue eyes of yours out first." She licked her lips and took a step towards him.

76 raised his rifle and bunkered his weight down before his vision was blocked by the familiar dark planes and angles of Reyes' body when he dropped down, shotguns drawn, and fluidly open-fired in to the crowd, moving through them like a dance. The raiders had been successfully caught off-guard, and the shrapnel blew baseball-sized holes through their layered armor, blowing their bodies back several feet in to gory piles of bones and leather and meat. But any sense of victory was abruptly culled when a hoard of shapes rushed from the outskirts of the camp and mauled their target, all brandishing their cutlasses and box-cutters and machetes. It happened too quickly for 76 to even have a second to react—they'd planned this... They'd fucking _planned_ this. They'd used him to get Reyes in the open. They'd just been waiting for the opportunity—for Gabriel to drop himself in to their numbers. He was strong, stupidly _,_ ridiculously strong, but even Gabe couldn't handle dozens of bodies stabbing in to him. Blood was spraying like a dark hydrant, shooting reds and blacks through the December air, and bits of flesh tossed and sloshed to the dirt at 76's boots.

The synth stood in a still and stunned silence, wholly ignored by the mass of raiders in front of him. It was like his brain shut down.

There was no way Gabriel would survive this. No amount of nanites could save him from the damage being done.

The weight of the moment didn't fully hit him until the hoard withdrew, the raiders parting to reveal the gory aftermath of their onslaught. Nisha was looming over what had once been Gabriel Reyes, two weapons drawn, mouth open, panting and wearing a disgusting smile, her leathers soaked with red and with bits of Reyes hanging off her straps and buckles. 76 couldn't even make sense of the mangled shape on the ground. Guts were splayed out on the grass and noticeable ribs were yawned open and emptied.

It was an absolute massacre, and 76 had set Gabriel up for it.

He'd been nothing but bait.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit...

SHIT.

His mind raced, clawing for anything to latch to and ground him back to reality. Moira's face flashed through his mind's eye, blue and red eyes glinting through the confused and frantic fog.

Right... Moira...

He had to get Gabe to _Moira._

76 couldn't afford to think about the mess in front of him. He couldn't let the crowd of murderous, gleeful smiles get to him.

He had a job to do, and it was time to get it done.

He permitted the walls he'd built around his mind to drop, and Jack came flooding in like an avalanche of emotional snow. The blanket of cold was welcoming, and he allowed it to soak in and cool the fury in his eyes. 

The synth's frozen gaze swept through the cackling crowd as the raiders crept closer, drunk off their kill. He needed to get them away from Gabe.

76 open-fired in to the crowed before jetting off in to the trees, not knowing how many were left outside of camp but not caring anymore. He couldn't afford to care. The gang hollered and howled and took chase, running after him between the twisted dead trees and leaping over rubble through the night. He zigged and zagged and leapt over rough terrain, losing a few Disciples here and there but keeping the majority  close enough that they could still follow but far enough that they couldn't easily shoot at him in the dark.

He was still just bait.

It was pitch-black by now, the patches of fresh snow reflecting just enough moonlight to highlight the ground enough for them to keep up as he made his way towards a raider outpost he was familiar with. 76 waited for the women to get close before he tossed a grenade in to the camp ahead, and then he swung his weight to turn his run, vanishing as he leapt and bound away, far too fast for them when he wanted to be. Behind him were more explosions and the angry cries of an entire outpost preparing to pour out like drunken wasps atop the chasing Disciples.

That should buy enough time for him to do what he needed to do.

Five minutes of running faster than he'd ever gone before passed and he made it back to Blackwatch. 76 emptied his clip to finish of the remaining raiders keeping guard, and the synth finally made it to where he needed to be. He collapsed in to the bloody and snowy mud, desperate to check if Gabriel was alive enough to salvage, only to be completely ruined by the mess that was once his friend.

Gabriel's insides were mostly spilled and diced to gory streamers on the snow, only his right lung and his heart remaining in his chest cavity, a cutlass driven through the still muscle. His ribs were jagged and emptied, and his throat cut so many times and so deeply that 76 thought it a miracle that Gabe's head was still attached. Aside from plenty of knives in them and some deep lacerations, his  extremities seemed in-tact, which would at the very least make moving him easier.

The scene was something out of a nightmare, but the absolute worst part of it was the smell. The air around the body was rotten and pungent, and the synth figured that he only didn't throw up because his mask was filtering out the worst of it.

76's brain was gratefully fuzzy and heavy, Jack's mental static protecting him with a blanket of numbing ice that pooled in the front of his skull.

He couldn't afford to break down. Not yet.

Gabriel still needed him.

The synth mechanically reached in to the inner-pocket of his coat to pull out the beacon Moira had given him, had this moment actually come. He pinned it to what was left of Gabriel's snow-dusted pantleg before very carefully going about scooping up the remains of the Gunner, hushing him like the carcass could still hear while desperately trying not to fall apart. Jack's ice just had to hold him over until he could deliver Gabriel to Moira. Just a little longer.

76 steeled himself and cradled the man's splintered neck, careful to make sure Gabe's damaged spine didn't completely snap, before gently rising to his feet, every movement stiff and dispassionate because if he permitted even a sliver of sun through the cold, he'd crumble.

"I've got you," he whispered and allowed his HUD to begin to target the Institute. "I've got you, Reyes... You're going to be all right."

With a flash of light and thunder the pair vanished, and Watchpoint Blackwatch fell permanently silent and abandoned in the bitter December black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! This finally concludes the Gunner portion of this story.  
> We now move on to the next phase of Gabe and Jack/76’s rather complicated relationship.
> 
> Sorry if this feels rushed. I could have lengthened the chapter out a LOT but decided to keep it on the shorter side.
> 
> The next chapter’s basically pre-written, so it’ll be up this Friday to make up for not posting ch13 until today.


	14. Project Reaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Project Reaper comes to fruition.  
> TRIGGER WARNING: blood/gore

Two days.

Gabe had been in there with her for two solid days and 76 hadn’t heard as much as a god damn peep.

After hours of listening to her ramble on about scientific mumbo-jumbo, Moira had very nearly had him convinced that bringing someone back from the dead was actually possible. Of course, Gabriel’s situation wasn’t exactly ordinary—if you could consider an attempt at reviving a disemboweled man back to life ordinary. His body was flushed with nanites and the whole situation with that strange weapon of his certainly didn’t make matters any less complicated. Not to mention that Gabriel had been a bit of a huge freaking mess when 76 brought his remains in. He’d almost been carrying the guy’s head back under his arm. It had to have been a terrible way to die.

The main thing that 76 could clearly remember in the chaos was the deafening silence. Gabriel dropped when they’d swarmed him, cackling and wailing and blood spraying like a hydrant, but there had been a distinct quiet in the air. A peace. Like he’d just accepted it; maybe even welcomed it. Maybe, just maybe, under the red eyes and the lust for violence, Gabriel Reyes as Jack Morrison had once known him was still in there, hoping for release from whatever darkness had swallowed him.

What exactly was going to come out of that darkness, if Moira actually managed to revive him? Would it be Gabriel? Or someone, some- _thing_ , else entirely?

Apprehension spiked before settling as shivers in the synth’s marrow. 76 was desperate to keep Gabriel with him, yes, more than anything, but if all that came from the other side was a demon hollowed of any remaining humanity, the blonde wasn’t sure that he could handle it.

This whole thing was his fault. His and Jack’s. Jack had abandoned Gabriel and 76 had lied to and betrayed him, and now he might have completely destroyed whatever chance the Gunner had to rest in peace.

76 leaned into his glove, covering his mouth and rubbing his chin as his sins piled in his throat and threatened to spill onto the table. He was in the cafeteria, trying and failing to eat what he figured was meant to be vegetarian pot-roast when X6-88 appeared in that unsettling way he did.

“Unit SS-76, Dr. O’Deorain requires your presence in the Genetics Lab.”

76 was on his feet before the Courser had even finished his sentence. “Is Ga—I mean, was Dr. O’Deorain’s operation successful?”

“I am not privy to that intel. Dr. O’Deorain did not inform me whether or not her experiment was fruitful. She only sent me to escort you.” X6-88 turned and began to walk, and 76 quickly caught up, stressing to keep from showing too much emotion about the situation or the dark-skinned Courser would make a fuss. “You seem to be experiencing some distress, SS-76,” he spoke once in the hall leading into Moira’s lab.

“I’m fine.”

X6-88 gave a pensive tilt of his head. “I am aware that you were allocated to observe and work with the subject of Dr. O’Deorain’s experiment, but you should be cautious not to become compromised.”

“I’m not compromised,” 76 insisted as they stopped outside the laboratory doors. It was getting more and more difficult to keep his voice and movements even, showing no sign of sentiment for Gabriel’s condition. He just wanted to cry, really, but hadn’t found the opportunity to properly mourn with 88 hounding him every hour, poking and prodding him for any signs of malfunctions while 76 filed his reports.

Separating himself from Jack’s mountains of snow had proven more of a challenge than he’d expected it to be. It had taken nearly a solid day before 76 finally managed to shove the Gunner’s static back behind the replaced walls. Calling on Jack to protect him had been absolutely vital to getting Gabriel to Moira, or he’d have certainly ended up dying there with Gabe, but becoming that cold had scarred the synth’s emotional landscape. It would take time before he was back to his normal self, but 76 couldn’t help but focus his everything on Gabriel’s recovery and X6-88 could practically smell his anxiety. He had to be careful.

“I’m involved in the entirety of this operation and have every intention of seeing it through to the end. That’s all.”

X6-88’s sunglasses hid his expression but he was undoubtedly unconvinced. “You’ve grown too close to your work, SS-76. I shall take this opportunity to remind you that, per standard Institute regulations, you are due for a psychological and physical evaluation.”

76 clenched and unclenched a fist to keep from punching the Courser in the face. “I’ll do it after this project is finalized,” he grit. “Now if you’d excuse me, Dr. O’Deorain’s requested my presence.” For a moment 76 thought the Courser might not move, but X6-88 stepped aside, observing intensely with those hidden eyes as the blonde input the numbers to the access pad and hastily slipped inside.

He exhaled a breath of relief when the door hissed shut behind him, but was immediately met with a whole other situation that threatened to break his nerves.

“SS-76!” Moira threw her thin arms into the air excitedly. “It worked! I’ve done it! I’ve brought a man back from the grave!”

76 surveyed the ruins of her lab. Overhead lamps dangled and spat electricity and sparks, flickering harshly in the darkness and making Moira appear more insane than she was. There were tables and lab equipment and what looked like loose flesh strewn around. The walls were heavily splattered with blood, and the few remaining lab assistants left alive were cowering under chairs and tables.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded and approached, ignoring the sickening slosh of his boots in the pools of blood. “Where’s Reyes?”

“Gone!”

76 grabbed her by the collar, yanking the smiling woman to his face and earning gasps from the terrified staffers. “ _MOIRA_. WHERE. IS. GABRIEL.”

“He escaped through the air vents not long after his reanimation,” she motioned with her clawed hand. “He made quite the mess of my lab, didn’t he? He’s absolutely _wondrous_ , 76! Like nothing I could have expected!”

“What? The vents?” The synth glanced towards the air vents in the back corner, above where a turned-over shelf should have normally been standing. It was still securely locked, and the damn thing wasn’t even large enough for a child to crawl through. “That’s impossible.”

“You synths have no imagination.” Moira gave an annoyed tut before her mad grin crawled wider. “I did more than simply bring him back from the dead—I EVOLVED him.”

76 growled in frustration before shoving the geneticist to the floor. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Through the nanites and a combination of chems and a modified form of the Forced Evolutionary Virus, I was able to greatly accelerate and stabilize his natural mutations,” she explained, still beaming that wild, uncomfortable smile. “Between that and some rather extraordinary technology installed by Dr. Ziegler, we were able to successfully reanimate his body and restart his brain. We could not completely rid the subject of the alien microorganisms, so he is now in a perpetual state of simultaneous necrosis and healing, but the combination of chemicals and bio-mechanical elements should keep him alive for…well, forever. And his nanites have now even somehow synchronized their operations with what remains of the microorganisms to the point of legitimate symbiosis. It’s absolutely _enthralling_.”

“Jesus Christ…” 76 ran his hands over his face and tried to keep calm. Gabriel was alive. He was ALIVE. But at what cost? “You used FEV? Shit…”

“Yes. It was vital to stabilize his genome, but the form we used is very particular to our needs. Dr. Virgil is a genius. He was able to craft a strain that provided us with exactly what we required to get the job done. I owe the man a beer.”

“So you're telling me that Gabe is a _super-mutant_ now?”

“No. Not really. The FEV strain did have some odd physical side-effects that manifested during the procedure, but they are minimal.”

Minimal... Right. “And you said that he went into the air vents? Just how the hell did he manage that?”

“Yes.” Moira wiped herself off before standing and fixing her purple tie. “Reaper is somehow capable of manifesting himself as some sort of fog or mist. I’m not certain how yet, or what it’s constructed of, but I can assure you that I shall find out.”

“Fog?” 76 blinked, incredulous.

“Yes,” Moira’s dual-colored eyes sparkled. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Sure… So what the hell are we supposed to do now, if Gabriel’s just floating around the facility?”

“We should be able to track Reaper through the nanites in his system, but I require your assistance to detain him.” Moira kicked a chair out of the way, making a synth yelp in terror and scramble out of the room. The frantic slave vanished through the door while 76 returned his attention towards Moira as she brought up a map on a terminal. He leaned over her shoulder, bracing a gloved palm on the table to watch a white dot blip against the green, moving through the vents at remarkable speed. “You see?” she poked adamantly at the glass with a spidery nail. “He’s in the ventilation system. He was quite angry and disoriented, but I guess that is to be anticipated after such a violent end to his life. I command you to fetch him for me. We must find out if the subject retains his memories to prove that this program was a true success.”

“Why the hell do I have to do it?” the blonde grumped, still studying the screen.

“Because he likes you.”

76 snorted a sound meant to be a laugh, feeling like he might actually choke on it. “I think that you’re being a bit generous, Doc… Once Gabe finds out that I’m not the real Jack, I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t pull all of my damn limbs off.”

“I’m aware of this issue, but Reaper currently has no reason to believe that you’re anything but the authentic Jack Morrison. That being said, I shall provide you with a prototype weapon which should be able to deal damage to Reaper, should it come to that. But you should talk to him.”

“Talk to him,” 76 tilted his eyes cynically. “To the undead smog monster of my best friend. Great. I love this job.”

“Oh, stop being so juvenile,” Moira snorted. “You’re the only one here that Reaper will recognize and be willing to converse with. The last thing I want is for my greatest creation to be executed because the fools that I work with don’t understand the value of communication.”

“You haven’t informed Father or the SRB of his escape yet?”

“No,” she confirmed. “This lab is specialized and I’ve taken great care to secure it. Only you and I know.”

“And the people here,” 76 motioned at the shuddering scientists. “And the synth that just bailed. And Dr. Ziegler.” He hadn’t seen her remains in the lab but there was still no sign of her.

Moira pursed her thin lips in fleeting consideration. “Let me handle that,” she stated so matter-of-factly that he suspected she was going to kill the lot of them. No skin off his teeth. “I’ll upload this map to your visor. Now, then—I ORDER you to bring my test subject back to me, SS-76. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah. Understood,” 76 sighed. If Gabe really was alive, he needed to find him before the other Coursers did. Father had low tolerance for lack of control over test subjects, human or otherwise. “Better me than somebody else, I guess.”

“Excellent.” The red-head scuttled through the rubble into another room, using a key-card to gain access. 76 trailed her, half-mindedly stepping over what looked to be an arm and dutifully waited for her return. By now, he knew better than to enter locked labs without direct instruction or authority to do so.

She promptly exited the room and locked it behind her before stuffing his arms with what looked like some sort of rifle. It was an odd design for an Institute weapon. They were usually so clean and white and boxy, but this thing was bulky and more intricate, looking more like something Jack would have used on the top-side. “Looks like a modified plasma rifle.” He turned it in his arms considerately. “Has a good weight to it. Less plastic, more steel,” he tinkered with the gun in his hands, mumbling observations to himself. 

“I’m calling it a Heavy Pulse Rifle,” Moira smirked, pleased by his investigation. “It’s a much-upgraded version of the Institute’s rather paltry version of standard laser rifles and uses plasma rounds. I’ve been developing it for the last month or so with the hopes of replacing our arsenal with something with more bite to it, but it’s had no official field testing yet,” Moira-code for that Father didn’t even know about the research. Typical.

“I see. How do you know this’ll hurt your pet project?”

“Reaper appears to be immune to almost all physical types of damage. However, if my theory is correct, he should still be subject to energy damage, such as plasma and lasers and the like.”

“Should be?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome.”

“If that fails, the rifle can fire an EMP grenade that should render him unconscious. Just be careful not to get too close to the blast, yourself.” Moira handed him the grenade and 76 stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

“ _Should_. Right. And how do you know this gun of yours won’t just blow up in my face?”

“I don’t.”

“Fantastic,” 76 smiled sarcastically and removed the standard .45 from the strap on his back to replace it with her prototype.

“I’m trusting you to do this for me, SS-76. Do this one tincy-wincy little thing and I’ll make sure that you get a commendation.”

“Oh, please. You’re already on Father’s bad side. After this, you’ll be lucky if he lets you keep your day-job.”

Moira’s strange eyes hardened. She’d always allowed him leniency with being more spirited than the other scientists did, but there was always an invisible line in the sand that he had to dance around with her, and it looked like he’d found it this time. “Just bring him back here and get him under control until I can figure out a method of containment,” she rumbled.

“And then what?”

A devilish grin flashed back to her face. “And then the experiments begin, of course.” Yeah. He should have probably expected that.

“Of course. I’ll be back with Gabriel as soon as possible.” 76 took a step back, nearly tripping over some rubble before rebalancing and turning on his heel, lowering his visor to check on his friend’s whereabouts. The dot blipped across his screen, erratically vanishing and appearing at different locations. “In the meantime, do me a solid and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Don’t break my prototype, SS-76! I mean it this time!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll be back soon.” 76 slipped out of the door, making sure X6-88 wasn’t waiting for him before he began his hunt.

 

Death had been a relief. There was the pain, yes, but pain he could deal with. It was something he understood and could manage. But after the brief reprieve came a vast abyss before his humanity was minced in the fangs of Ug-Qualtoth’s horde of daggered maws and then spat back out, eviscerated, and leaving half his soul in the chasm of her guts, contract complete. He’d become one of Her Dark Young, left to aimlessly smoke and drift through the bog without feeling or sense of self.

That felt like eons ago. Lifetimes stacked upon countless more.

Where was he now?

Torn from Her mossy gardens, his fractured soul fought to keep him together, his mind whirling and frothing and drooling from his ears. He felt like he was falling apart. Being ripped apart. Shredding from the inside-out. Collapsing into nothing and then reanimating against his will. Like each step he took snagged an important piece of him on a crooked nail, peeling a thick strip of him away before it sloughed off and was reabsorbed, all before peeling away all over again. He was lost in it, swathed in a hollow cold that tingled, prickled, and itched, threatening to drive him over the precipice.

He struggled to reorient himself, clawing and lashing at the neon and pulsing lights that blinded him, but failed to grasp anything solid, as though he were made of slime.

The wraith wailed as he felt his bones snap and crack and splinter, shards of himself falling to the ground before welling back into him over and over again. He wheezed desperately but no air came, finding no respite from an eternity’s worth of suffocation. His blood felt like it had boiled and evaporated in his veins. He shuddered and shrilled again, begging to be mercifully put out of his misery as his body swelled and tore and recessed over and over, unable to keep whole.

And then, out of the swirling expanse of turmoil, a voice echoed, firm and familiar and concrete, “Gabe! Gabe, can you hear me? Gabriel!”

Gabriel…

Right. His name was Gabriel.

“It’s me, Gabe—it’s Jack.”

“ _Ja-aaa-c-kk_ ,” the vowels and syllables strained to take shape, slow, broken and putrid.

“Yeah, buddy… I’m here… Just…relax for me, alright? Just relax…”

The world around him sputtered in and out of focus, fluctuating and flashing before weaving into something tangible, his frenzied essence finally coiling in on itself, and Gabriel felt the relieving _whoosh_ of air fill his rotten lungs. The wraith gravitated towards the voice, snatching it up and ingraining his everything into its reality like an anchor. He could feel the heat meld into him and he leaned into it. “ _Jack, Jack, Jack_ ,” he strained over and over in sour and jagged breaths, repeating the word until it felt real.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Gabriel had heard that promise before. He growled and coiled tighter, forcing the voice to stay this time.

“Gabe… Your fingers…are in my kidneys…”

“ _Jack_ …” His vision slowly blurred in to focus. In one of his hands he cradled a clear face, everything else around it a disorienting haze of neon and black. Cerulean eyes gazed into him, a halo of gold shimmering around a head of blonde hair. “ _Mi sol_ …” Gabriel pressed their foreheads together, feeling hot skin on cool as his body settled back into shape, all his pieces snapping back together even as his insides squirmed and writhed like angry worms. “ _How_ _I’ve missed you_ …”

There was no monster to hold him from Jack anymore. The beast lurking in Gabriel’s shattered soul had retreated into the shards of black, still present but in hiding from the billions of silvery lights now blinking and singing to one another in his dead blood.

There were more voices now, no longer just one but a whole hoard of them, but Gabriel welcomed their strange, metallic orchestra. The new voices didn’t fear Jack.

“It’s only been two days, Gabe.”

Gabriel opened his eyes, basking in the cool blues so close to his face and feeling the heat soak into his aura. “ _No…_ ”

“It felt longer to you?”

He nodded feebly against the warmth and brought a clawed hand up to smear blood against the blonde’s pale skin. “ _You’re…warm_ ,” he rumbled pleasantly, feeling his molecules vibrate and itch.

“And you’re cold as hell. Let’s get you a blanket and a coffee or something, okay?”

Gabriel didn’t want to move if it meant falling apart again. “ _Moving….hurts…_ ”

“Maybe try using your legs this time?” Jack suggested. “I’ll keep you up.”

“ _Mmmm_ …”

“Trust me, all right?”

Gabriel whined but permitted Jack to withdraw. He wailed when pain shot up his legs, stumbling and feeling himself being ripped at the seams again before being grounded by a hand snatching up his and squeezing. “ _Hurts_ …”

“I’ve got you, Gabe… I’ve got you… Come on.”

Gabriel leaned his weight against the warmth and hummed as he was shouldered and led off, feeling his legs carry him and the nails pulled back, permitting him to move. It still hurt, but the pain was tolerable, his legs still crumbling under him as he shambled.

He probably looked like trash, he sure felt like it, but Gabriel didn’t care.

Jack was alive. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

 

Moira hadn’t been exaggerating. Gabriel really was an undead shadow monster, and 76 had very nearly shit himself. The once-dead Gunner had been little more than a mass of miasma skulking the back halls of an unfinished section of the BioScience labs, eyes glowing a predatory crimson then and still even now. It was probably for the best that they’d ended up here, where there were few staffers that might catch them and no questions to answer or surveillance cameras to worry about.

Reyes was more solid though not completely or consistently, his full weight braced against 76’s frame as the synth attempted to find a way to help his friend keep his form as they shambled together towards the elevator. 76 was familiar with the back routes of the Institute and knew how to get them back to Moira with little chance of getting caught. X6-88 was certainly hunting for them both, and 76 was trying to keep from thinking too much about what sort of shit they’d be in if they were caught by the Courser before Moira and Ziegler could talk about the situation with the Director. If Father found out that Reyes had gone berserk and had been ghosting through the facilities undetected before they could get the wraith somewhere controlled, there’d be hell to pay.

76 wasn’t sure what he’d do if Shaun ordered the experiment to be terminated, but no one was going to re-kill Gabriel without a fight, monster or not. He was sure Moira would raise hell first, protective of her work, but Father was a commanding man and she couldn’t argue with him forever. To make matters worse, Ziegler almost always agreed with the Director on most things.

Ziegler—where the hell had she been? The question settled uncomfortably in his chest but the blonde pressed forward, assisting his friend into the elevator and shifting his weight to free a hand so he could press the button. After a series of collapsing into agonized screams while parts of him bled into black fog, it had quickly become evident that Gabriel couldn’t hold himself together without physical contact. Even with 76’s arm around his waist and quiet words of encouragement, his friend was trembling and pieces of him ghosted about.

76 had expected the disembodied mist to smell, but mostly it was just cold, like dipping into a spring of black water. The sensation of Gabriel swirling around him was probably less disturbing than it should have been. He couldn’t deny the closeness he’d felt when Gabriel had nearly encompassed him in the black, draping his essence over the synth like a cool cloak, the only thing visible in the black being the reds of his eyes, still alien but familiar and radiating a longing that 76 would never be able to satisfy.

There was something simultaneously comforting and disconcerting that Gabriel couldn’t find the differences between SS-76 and Jack Morrison.

He chewed on his lower lip as Gabe blew shallow, ragged breaths against his blonde hair. Bits and pieces of the Gunner’s body floated around the dark box as they descended into the lowest levels of the forgotten sections of the Institute. The wraith was murmuring words in a mix of broken Spanish and some other, rougher language, mumbling and cursing and hitching the words in his damaged throat, where an ugly gash was still mending from the Gunner’s violent end.

76 imagined the laces of silver now crisscrossing Gabriel’s chest and abdomen, sewn shut by Angela’s expert hands, and hoped that she’d somehow pieced the his guts back together. The image of Gabe being hollowed out on the snow left the synth sick, but there was the reassurance of a pulse against his shoulder-blade, unsteady and faint but there.

Even after it had been stabbed through with a knife the size of his forearm, Gabriel still somehow had a beating heart. He was arguably still more human than 76 was.

Half-way through the hall towards the next elevator, Gabriel’s breathing began to become shallow. 76 hesitated to look for respite and found a steel crate to his left, set against a wall beside the entrance to an ancient kitchenette. “Can you sit?”

“I don’t know,” his voice was low and gritty and with an echo-like quality that 76 attributed to his neck injuries. The poor sap sounded like he was trying to talk through a hand-radio in a tunnel while also having a bad case of bronchitis. At least he was speaking more than two words at a time now. Gabriel was beginning to exit his drugged-out haze, alertness rising in his red eyes.

“Still hurting?” The wraith gave a single, fragile nod and 76 nodded back. “Okay. Well, do you think you can at least try? You need to rest.”

Gabriel grumbled in weak protest but shifted his weight to move, very slowly making it to the crate and dropping his weight on it with a little help. His visage momentarily fogged but he gratefully managed to bring himself back together, looking miserable and dejected.

It was dim in the halls of the lower floors of the forgotten FEV labs, long abandoned for newer facilities, but 76 could just make out the details of Gabriel’s altered form. He looked bigger, likely from the FEV, and all of his beautiful, dark skin had faded into an undead ashy color. A creamy white was just beginning to glaze over the crimson, the cherry glow of his eyes having since subsided. Silver hair streaked back from his temples, the top of his head was a mix of greys and brown-blacks like Gabe had aged a good thirty-odd years in some places but not others. Gabriel’s face was the same, still so handsome it hinged on absurdity, even with the dark bruises under his strange eyes and the fresh cuts and scars.

Alive… Alive…. He was _alive_.

Somehow, after being ripped to literal shreds, Gabriel Reyes was walking and talking and breathing. He was alien-looking, sure, and a little undead-y, but 76 would take that over a pile of guts and bones in the grass any day.

“How do I look?” Gabriel’s face scrunched. “Be honest.”

76 squatted at the man’s feet and leaned his arms on Gabriel’s thighs. “Like shit,” he smirked, feeling his blue eyes twinkle as he took in the larger man’s features. “Not dead, though. So pretty good.”

“I think that’s debatable.”

“I like the hair,” the synth reached to tease a few grey strands. Gabriel would normally have swat the hand away but he was too tired to manage it, and instead released a low purring noise that might have sounded threatening to almost anyone else. “It looks good on you.”

“Gee, thanks.” Gabriel grumbled something undoubtedly-rude in Spanish and 76 chuckled.

“I mean it. For a dead guy, you look amazing, Reyes. I could get used to the vampire overlord look.”

Gabriel huffed but there was no heat in it, his scarred lip curling just enough to reveal sharpened teeth, stark white against the shabby greys of his skin.

“It looks like you’re developing cataracts. Can you see?”

“Yes… No… Mn… Sort of… Everything is so…bright.”

“Bright?” 76 tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Yes, bright,” Gabriel grumbled and ran a hand over his foggy eyes. He exhaled a shaky growl that was probably meant to be intimidating but only managed to stress how pitiful he was. “All the damn lights are very bright, and everything else is dark as shit.” The wraith eyed him, still managing to look affectionate while being an undead hell-beast. “And you have a halo.”

“A what?” 76 arched an eyebrow. “Gabe, I think you’re still high off whatever they pumped you with.”

“No. It’s there. I can…” Gabriel glanced his eyes away before looking back, “I can see it, Jack—your soul.”

“My soul?”

“Yes. It’s white-gold and cerulean and so god damn _bright_. It’s hard to look at you. Maybe try a fucking hat or something.”

76 stood and rolled his eyes. “You’re high,” he decided.

“NO,” Gabriel snarled, his thick brows knitting. The muddled reds of his eyes dilated and refocused under the growing cataracts. “I can SEE it. I could see theirs too, in the lab. Some on their heads, some around their cores, like auras. Some weak, some strong. I could see like this after I found the artifact, but not this clearly. Everything’s so… _vivid_ now. It’s…difficult to explain…”

“So, I bet that you have some questions,” 76 changed the subject.

Gabriel’s haze hardened and he looked away. “I do. But I’m too tired for it,” the wraith exhaled a long, exhausted breath of black fog from his nose. “I just want to sleep.”

“Once we get back to the lab, you can c—”

“WHAT? You’re taking me BACK?” Gabriel’s face whitened.

“It’s for your own good, Gabe,” 76 smiled tenderly in poor attempt to soothe him. “They can help you.”

“HELP me?!” The wraith roared, his lips curling back. “They DID THIS to me!”

“Brought you back from the dead, you mean? Yes. They did. It’s my fault. I asked them to do it.”

Gabriel’s anger blanched, his confused expression shifting to a quiet rage as he very slowly rose to his feet. Yeah, he was definitely bigger. “You what?”

“They had an experimental program here to try and bring a dead person back to life. I…volunteered you.” Gabriel didn’t need to know the complete truth. Not yet.

The wraith looked genuinely pained, anger rising to meet his confusion, making his red eyes flicker red to white and then red again. “Why?”

76 stood, his nose now at Gabriel’s fanged mouth. It felt odd to look up at him after Jack’s decade of staring him eye-to-eye. Odd, but appropriate; Gabriel had always been the larger personality. “I couldn’t just leave you there in a pile of gore in the snow like that knowing that these people could possibly save you, Gabe. I couldn’t let you go like that.”

“So you’re telling me that I’m miserable and falling apart because you couldn’t _let me go_?!” Gabriel’s eyes flashed a vicious crimson. “Wasn’t it enough that I died protecting you?! You had to dig my corpse down to some god-forsaken lab and have them rip me from hell, is THAT it?!” Smoke sizzled from Gabriel’s shoulders, his fangs clenched and bore with white fury. “You’re a selfish piece of shit, Jack Morrison,” he rumbled.

Jack dropped his eyes, unable to look at the red eyes for long. He wanted to tell him. To tell Gabriel that he was a synth and that Jack Morrison was dead. That he’d been poisoning him for months. That he was madly, absolutely overwhelmed by his sins. That he loved him. But he’d not tell him any of that.

76 would be a good soldier. He’d escort Reaper back to Moira’s waiting hands. He’d file a report. He’d lie until he was told not to lie. Because if he didn’t, Gabriel was as good as dead, and 76 would do anything to keep him alive. Anything.

“I know. It’s fine to hate me after all that I’ve done to you.”

“I can’t hate you, Jack,” Gabe shook his head. “I fucking want to, but I can’t.”

76 forced himself to turn away before Gabriel could touch him and shatter his willpower. “The scientists here should be able to help stabilize your powers and make sure that you recover. Your best chance at a healthy life—second life—is here with them. Trust me, Gabe. They’re going to do their best to help you,” it was a half-truth but it was all he could offer

Gabriel pressed his nose into the synth’s blonde hair and 76 managed not to shudder. “Do you trust them?”

76 swallowed as a large arm hooked him at the waist, drawing him closer. “About as well as I can.”

“Will they let you stay with me?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll kill them, otherwise.” The wraith stuffed his face into 76’s hair to nuzzle him like a dog long-separated from its owner. “It’ll be messy.”

The synth laughed tiredly and pulled the arm away, allowing his hand to slide down and grip Gabriel’s, and the wraith’s cold fingers coiled with his. “Come on, Reyes. I won’t let them kill you. I think you’ve suffered enough for one lifetime.”

“All right,” Gabriel resigned tiredly. “I trust your judgement.”

76 really wished that he didn’t.

The pair quietly moved down the hall towards the elevator, Gabe ghosting over debris like he had no feet, and 76 pressed the button to take them to the back route towards Moira’s facility. He was leading the reanimated Gunner straight into her claws, but this really was Gabe’s best bet at any form of recovery.

76 prayed that Gabriel would find it in him to forgive him for everything that he’d done and for what he was about to do, knowing that he wouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Agent Reaper :)  
> Gabe’s going to be able to think more clearly again, but he’ll have a whole new set of issues to deal with now. 
> 
> A new character gets introduced next chapter as Moira struggles to get Reaper under control.


	15. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new hire is brought on to the program to assist in controlling Reaper.

Gabriel curled his lip and growled tiredly as the blonde stuck his arm with a needle, not because it hurt but because he was annoyed and heavily exhausted. Even his leering felt too weary to come across as much more than sleepy-eyed squinting. The doctor wore a nervous but genuinely friendly little smile that made her easy to trust. She wasn’t trying to harm him, he knew this easily just by the way her soul pulsed. Her soul. Holy shit, her soul. It was extravagant—gold with a vermillion core. The colors pulsed gently all around her body, unlike Jack’s, whose was only around his head.

Most people didn’t have a halo, and Gabriel had already seen many more here than he’d ever seen topside, though it was very possible that he just hadn’t been able tell before. Things weren’t as clear or as vibrant back then. Before his death, a dark phase of his existence that Gabriel knew he’d forever be marred by, most of his abilities came directly from wielding the artifact, but they were inherent to him now.

Having been awake for a couple of hours, he could clearly hear the twinkling lights whispering in his rotten blood, communicating every minute detail about the happenings in his body. He could feel every cell move like ants marching under the skin, which crawled with its own life. Nothing felt static anymore. His body was _alive_. The nanites were a part of him in a way that he’d never felt before and, as strange as it was, Gabriel had already decided that he much preferred them over the thing he’d inherited from the misplaced artifact.

Jack had said they’d already sent soldiers called ‘Coursers’ to search for Kremvh's Tooth but that they hadn’t found anything at the now vacant Blackwatch, which was fine. He didn’t need the damn thing anymore. It had done its job, and now it could go and curse someone else.

Gabriel had managed to fulfill the contract with Ug-Qualtoth by dying, but he’d been resurrected with all of the boons and none of the nastier side-effects the weapon had weighed him with—aside from a lingering taste for human flesh, maybe—that and his soul having been absolutely obliterated. If anyone could see what it looked like now, he’d be fucking embarrassed. Luckily for him, no one else could.

He felt hollow. Gabriel’s once powerful soul had been chewed down to a ball of snarling barbed wire, still dangerous but empty inside. It wasn’t like flesh; such a badly-damaged soul could never recover, and no amount of nanites could assist in it in doing so. Gabriel would need to be cautious and permit his injured soul to rest and recuperate from the worst of those cuts and gaps, or he risked being snuffed out and sent back to the swampy hell that he’d been ripped from.

Though it had felt like literal eons, he’d apparently only been dead for a little less than two and a half days. He’d been revived using a mix of convoluted technology, FEV and chems, which is why he looked so damn disgusting and had literally grown a few good inches. The blonde, Dr. Ziegler, had to give him guts of metal and wires to replace everything that he’d spilled on the dirt; this was to help sped up his ‘natural’ healing process and had made it easier for them to revive him. Dr. Ziegler wasn’t certain if the nanites would break down all of the metal and rubber to replace his organs with ones made of the same tiny robots that now chattered in his brain, but it was all the same to Gabriel. He was up and moving, regardless. He still had one lung and they’d managed to fix his heart tissue enough to get it beating again. He could make it stop beating by will now. Shit.

His memories were still jumbled and whole sections were just flat-out missing, something that greatly irritated Moira, but she seemed pleased that he could answer simple questions and that he remembered all the way back to SEP. Nearly everything before that was fried and gone, but Gabriel didn’t think it was worth that much remembering, anyways. All that he cared about was that he could remember Jack; every precious memory of Jack. That was all that was important.

Jack… Gabriel still hadn’t decided what to feel about _Jack_.

While Gabe got worked on and tested, Jack had revealed himself to be a spy working for the underground organization known as the Institute, which Gabriel had once thought nothing more than a rumor to have even existed. Jack had made contact with them after he’d moved to the Capital and had been kidnapped, citing only that they saved his life in exchange for a job. That’s all Gabriel knew so far about that little story, but he’d learn more, one way or another.

And Moira… FUCKING _MOIRA_ … Gabriel couldn’t believe that she was still alive and was sitting in the same fucking room with him, much less so that she’d been instrumental in reviving him. Gabriel had never thought that he’d have the pleasantry of ever see her spidery shape again, but here she was, interviewing him while Dr. Ziegler poked and prodded at his cold, grey skin. If the wraith weren’t so thoroughly exhausted, the red-head be torn to gory bits on the floor by now. But he was patient. He'd get his chance.

“I’d like to perform some tests on your ability to…what did you call it?”

“Wraithing,” he grumped.

“Ah, yes—wraithing,” she made a notation on her terminal. “I need to research how it functions.”

Gabriel exhaled a smoggy breath through his nose and tried to relax while Ziegler timed his uneven heartbeat with fingers to his heavily-scarred neck. “It’s the nanites. They can break me up and piece me back together. It fucking hurts like hell, though. Guess it makes sense, seeing as I'm literally ripping myself to shreds and all that."

“Including anything you’re wearing?"

“They can dissect anything inside of me and in close contact to my skin, so long as I have enough of them to do it and the materials are somewhat natural. But they’re still healing my tissues and will need to propagate before I attempt anything very seriously. I’m exhausted and so are they. They do need resources, however.”

“Yes. They shall always require minerals and nutrients to restore flesh,” Moira nodded. "I'll make certain that we provide you with an appropriate diet to ensure their and your overall health. But I’m intrigued as to how they are able to manipulate your body. I never programmed them to do anything more than to keep you alive.”

“They had to evolve,” Gabriel shrugged and checked his nails, half of which were starting to turn black and threatening to fall off. His fingertips were stained a deep black-purple, still dead and without much sense of touch. They’d be the last to heal, but he suspected that he’d never fully recover his fine motor skills, which was fine. Shotguns didn’t exactly require much in the way of finesse.

“Please elaborate.”

“They cooperate with the virus. I’m not entirely sure how that all works,” he admitted. “It somehow enabled them to be able to dismantle organic material and reform by mapping things as they tear them down, but it requires a lot of energy so I can’t do it too often or it’ll exhaust them. They'll automatically react to anything they deem as hostile, so I’ll naturally wraith if attacked, so long as the nanites decide that it’s energy-effective to do so. They’re useful little buggers. Never did anything like this before I died, though. Pretty crazy, but I like it.”

The tip-tack of Moira’s keystrokes filled the air between his words as she made swift notations. “Intriguing… And how do you know any of this with such confidence?”

“They communicate with me.”

“How so?”

“I don’t fucking know,” he snorted. “It’s like…voices in my head. It’s...hard to explain.”

“I see. How curious.”

“Does that answer all of your stupid questions? Can I fucking go to sleep now?”

“Almost,” Ziegler removed an IV and offered another small smile while her aura pulsed comfortingly. “Just allow me to finish patching you up and you should be good to go on my end.”

“Thanks,” he rumbled.

Angela offered another gentle smile and nodded before she scanned him with a shiny aluminum tool. Everything here was so bright and clean, it was positively ridiculous. Jack said the entire place was like that and Gabriel already hated the idea. “Na sicher. It’s my job to make sure that you’re healthy and comfortable.”

He tilted his head at her. “Deutsche? Ich hätte es wissen müssen.”

The woman blinked in surprise before smiling. “You speak German?”

“Yeah. Ein bisschen.”

Learning languages had always been one of Gabriel’s favorite ways to pass the time while traveling. He could remember picking up several languages on the way east from L.A.—German, Russian, Chinese and Italian were the main ones, and then he’d learned Japanese when working with the Shimadas. In his experience, it was wildly useful to know several languages because people often spoke them thinking the conversation was private. His best was probably Chinese or Japanese, only because he used them more than others.

“How did you manage to learn? Not many people speak it anymore.”

“Books,” he shrugged. “I read a lot; as much as I can. I also remember meeting a German family in the mid-west and that I worked for them for a while. Got pretty good, I guess, at it but I’m a little out of practice.”

“Nonsense. You’re not so bad.”

“If you’re well and done playing with the test subject,” Moira interjected, “allow us to finish our final notations before proceeding with the interview.”

Gabriel felt his insides squirm. “Interview?”

“The Director just wants to review the project,” Jack piped from where he was lounging in a corner and reviewing some sheer-white paperwork. It was only a bit unsettling how eased in to this world the soldier was, a reminder that he’d been lying all this time. “Moira’s hoping to get the scratch-and-sniff sticker on her report card. Maybe she'll get the strawberry one this time.”

Gabriel exhaled through his flared nostrils, annoyed, and flicked his foggy eyes back towards Dr. Ziegler. “Great. Can't fucking wait."

Angela offered another little smile in effort to keep him at ease. “It’s nothing to be worried about. Are you experiencing any pain, Mr. Reyes?”

“Not too much, since I've been sitting here for a while."

“Do you believe that you can walk any better?”

“I feel more solid, so probably.”

“Let's give it a shot, hm?” She offered another one of her comforting smiles. Ziegler was good with her bedside manner but Gabriel could smell her anxiety. Seeing him upset her; down to the core of her. Every time she looked at him, her bright soul winced. He was getting the sense that she wasn’t as enthusiastic about the program as Moira was. Maybe there were even some regrets there, but he couldn’t tell. She held her cards close.

It was actually a bit frustrating to encounter someone that had control over their own energy, like shes omehow knew that he could see souls, something that he certainly hadn’t shared with them and had no intention to. Moira was practically impossible to get a solid read on, even now, though Gabriel honestly had expected as much from someone as neutral as she was. But Ziegler was different.

He studied her for a guarded moment before he nodded and sluggishly rose to stand. Pain shot up the wraith's legs the moment he put weight on them but he bit it back and didn’t allow it to show. He could feel Jack watching him from behind but kept his eyes on the pretty doctor.

“That’s it,” she encouraged and took his hand in effort to help, unflinching from the cold as her body heat soaked through his ashy skin. “There you go. Back on your feet! Hurting any?”

“A little,” he grumbled while his legs shivered and smoked. “But not as much as before.”

Once convinced that her patient could stand on his own, Dr. Ziegler took a few steps back and held out her small hands again to coerce him in her direction. “Come, come. Komm mir entgegen. Use your legs, please. But if it’s too much, do not hesitate to stop.”

He took a breath and stepped towards her, hissing dimly when the cold fire sparked and crackled through his toes and fired up into his thighs.

“Whoa, whoa! Mr. Reyes! Halt!” she held her palms up. “Stop walking if it hurts!”

“It’s fine,” he growled assertively and stepped forward again. The pain wracked his torn nerves, his cells beginning to rip at the seams, and Gabriel abruptly stopped short and hissed through clenched fangs when he felt his legs threaten to fade to black.

“It is NOT fine if you’re experiencing pain!” The woman was three-quarters of a foot smaller than he was but the medic showed no fear, a trait he admired even if it irritated him. “Now, let’s figure out a way to help you keep yourself together, yes?”

“Whatever,” Gabriel rumbled and rolled his shoulders, feeling his cells resettle.

He raised his milky eyes to meet her blues, not at all surprised by the compassion and determination that he found there but still sensing her concealed disgust. Disgust—that’s what it was, but not with him. She was disgusted with herself. Ziegler pitied him, yes, but more than anything she was upset with what she’d done TO him. She actually, legitimately, seemed to give an actual shit about what he’d been through, which was more calming than he thought it might be.

“I’m going to help you,” her tender, accented voice massaged any remaining frustration from his muscles. “I promise.”

Gabriel hesitated, uncertain how to respond to someone so genuinely concerned, but was unable to formulate a response before Moira interrupted them, “Father is arriving within the hour. Let’s finish this exam. We can focus on Reaper’s recovery once the final data has been collected.”

“You keep calling me that. Is that my fucking code name or some shit?”

“Yes.” Oh. “It’s the identifier that we have been using for this program. You are the primary test subject and have therefore been designated as Reaper.”

“I guess that it’s at least appropriate,” he scowled down at his dead fingers again. Gabriel attempted to clench them in to fists but couldn’t, only able to curl them about half-way before his cold flesh refused to further bend while his nanites scolded him to stop or cause tissue damage. Ziegler frowned at his brooding but he didn’t acknowledge it. “Let’s just get this over with.”

 

“Well?” Moira stood and eyed the Director expectantly.

76 was leaning against the wall and pretending to be reading through a report. Father had been speaking with Gabe for nearly an hour and it had Moira on-edge. In his experience, any time that Shaun took to so thoroughly examine a project usually meant that he disapproved of it and he got a feeling that Moira was well-aware of this. She’d been reviewing her and Ziegler’s tests on Gabe for most of the hour, but each minute seemed to get more agitated, rolling her pen through her spidery fingers and grumbling to herself more than usual.

“He’s a mess.”

76 readied himself for all-out war to break out while keeping his posture relaxed, yawning lazily through the heavy tension. It was important to keep on the outskirts of the conversation unless his opinion was specifically called for. Both Father and Moira might like him but he was still just a synth to them and he needed to keep from getting stuck in their crosshairs.

“He’s alive and he retained enough memory for the program to be considered a success. You can’t seriously claim that you don’t see that.”

“According to your own reports, he only retains memories from the last fifteen years, which is not even half of his lifespan, and you have been feeding him your nanites for most of that period. I hardly consider that a success, Doctor.”

“The subject retained his entire personality,” she insisted. “That more than anything was the goal: to prove that we can restore a person to life and to retain their essence, ideally with recent or all memory intact. I succeeded, in that regard.”

“He’s hardly even human. This man, this _thing_ , is an amalgamation of human flesh with biomechanical enhancements and chemicals, not to mention the nanites running thick enough in his blood to turn it silver. No; this is not the same man who died. He is an abomination of science, Dr. O’Deorain, not a success.”

“Director, in defense of my program, Gabriel Reyes was hardly a normal subject. Had he been a normal man exposed to the nanites, he would have become a proper candidate for reanimation years ago, and I have nothing but confidence that it would have been perfect. My original plans were not to include FEV but it was necessary due to the virus he suffers.”

“A virus that your nanites cannot purge.”

“They do not need to purge it," Moira grit her teeth, obviously trying her damnedest not to scream. 76 had seen her argue like this with Shaun in the past but there was more at risk this time around and she had to be aware of that. If he decided her project was a total failure, she'd not only be embarrassed but she risked having the rest of her programs stripped from her, or at the very least be put in nerd time-out. "They’re symbiotic now. The process might have been unplanned and unconventional, but the results speak for themselves. Mr. Reyes was dead for more than forty-eight hours and we brought him back to life with his personality and many of his memories intact. He may not be a human but he has evolved beyond humanity. Certainly that prospect excites you, Director.”

“ _Doctor_ ,” Father’s voice sharpened and she stiffened, “stop this. This program is a failure at nearly every level, and I am ending it now.”

“YOU CANNOT SER—”

“I am ENDING it, Doctor,” he rose his voice over hers. “Now. And this man, this _creature_ , should be exterminated before it becomes an issue. It has already caused enough damage to the Institute and has killed several scientists and synths. It must be put down.”

76 felt his even surface flinch but no one was paying him enough mind to notice. The worst part of this whole situation was that he was completely dependent upon Moira to protect Gabe. If he said even a single thing in Gabriel's defense, he'd oust himself and risked being reset. After all, the main reason he'd been created in the first place was as a spy and lure. His job was done, and 76 was now effectively worthless unless he made himself as valuable as possible. He'd need to do whatever instructed and behave like a good little robot if he wanted a chance to get get Gabe out after his recovery. As much as he hated it, 76 needed Moira. And so he clenched his teeth shut and ground them together to keep quiet in his little corner.

“Director, with all due respect, I must disagree with this. End the program if you must, but permit me to continue to research the subject. He has much to teach us. It’s possible that we can utilize this virus he carries in to something more substantial. And his ability to wraith is something worth further investigating. We could give the ability to Coursers via nanite enhancements. It would make them nigh-unstoppable.”

“That’s the problem. How long was this man floating around my facility untracked?”

“None at all, sir. I was able to track every step he made. I am no fool, Director, even though you may believe as much. His nanites can be traced with technology of my own invention. This way, we may track everywhere he goes at all times.” 76 still wasn't sure how he was going to handle that little problem.

“I do not like this,” Shaun sighed, voice strained, “but very well. So long as he can be contained and controlled, you may keep your Frankenstein. However, you have yet to explain that to me—how do you plan on keeping this pet of yours under Institute control? He is obviously far stronger than any Courser we have yet created, and if he can indeed move the way you’ve reported, he can’t easily be contained.”

76 exhaled through his nose, glad that he was wearing his mask to hide his relieved expression.

“I’ve reached out to a talented individual with a very distinct set of skills that I believe shall be enough to meet our unique requirements.”

Father folded his arms. “Oh? And are you going to be so kind as to share this information?”

Moira moved towards her desk to grab a file and handed it over. “Olivia Colomar. She goes by the alias of ‘Sombra’.”

Shaun plucked a photograph from the front of the case file for further investigation. “She’s a child.”

“A very extraordinary child, yes.” Moira folded her arms and shifted her weight. “She’s an exceptionally skilled programmer from the south-west. She recently moved to the Commonwealth because she’d somehow found out about us and attempted to make contact with me after locating a Gen-1 synth and dissecting it. Her skills would be greatly valuable to us, Reaper program or otherwise.”

“I never received any word of a potential contact or hack of our systems.”

“I wanted to be certain of her abilities before I filed a report. Dr. Zimmer has been assisting me.”

Father squinted, obviously making a mental note to go talk to Zimmer after this. “I see. And how is she of any relation to the subject?”

“Gabriel is made up of mostly machinery now. I believe that she can influence him.”

“Hack nanites?” Father grunted and returned the photograph to the file. “Is that even possible?”

“She seems to believe that it is, yes.”

“You've spoken with this girl?”

“Yes sir. I took initiative and spoke with her a week ago. She’s due to arrive within the next two weeks, with your approval.”

“You did this without discussing this matter with me first?" he scoffed. "Without any oversight or authorization? Dr. O’Deorain, we’ve been over this time and time again. There are rules and regulations in place for a reason. You cannot be a lone wolf at the Institute.”

“Agent Kellogg is.”

Shaun’s blue eyes hardened. Moira really should have known better than to bring that up. It was no secret that the Director didn't much care for Kellogg, their primary above-ground handyman, and for good reason. Though the scientist didn't seem to have any resentment for being used as a genetic experiment to create the Gen-3 synths—on the contrary, he'd expressed to 76 multiple times that he found it to be a blessing—he sure as hell seemed to have a chip on his shoulder about the whole killing his mother thing.  “Agent _Kellogg_ is a unique case.”

“Perhaps he shouldn’t be.”

Father sighed irritably and dropped the file on to her desk. “You’re testing my patience, Doctor, but very well. I shall approve her transfer. But if this ‘Sombra’ girl cannot control him, the subject shall be exterminated—immediately. Do you understand?”

“Of course, sir. I understand completely.”

“Soldier 76.”

The synth glanced up, glad to have finally been addressed. “Yes sir?”

“Seeing as you are the only personnel here other than Dr. O’Deorain with any personal experience with Mr. Reyes, it would alleviate my greatly-distended levels of unease if you would escort him while he is on Institute premises.”

“Yes sir. I’ll keep a close eye on him. Gabriel will behave best under my care, anyhow.”

Father turned to leave but hesitated at the door to glance over his shoulder. “And, Moira, do anything like this again and you shall be promptly expelled.” He didn’t even wait for a response before vanishing around the corner.

“Well,” 76 smirked only a bit smugly as the geneticist collapsed into her chair and groaned in to her hands, “I guess that went pretty much as well as it could have gone.”

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped.

“I’m going to escort Gabe to my quarters. He can sleep there.”

“Nonsense. Reaper is to remain here in the lab.”

“You can’t keep him cooped up, Moira. Gabe’ll get stir crazy and start acting out, and I think we've already seen what a mess that makes.”

“His alias is ‘Reaper’ and you shall call him as much.”

“Right. Well _Reaper_ needs proper sleep and care-taking. Trust me. He’ll be way more cooperative.”

“The Director will not approve.”

“You let me handle the Director. Between us, I think I can do it best. You’re not exactly Miss Congeniality.”

“FINE,” she groaned loudly. “If Father approves, I don’t care, so long as the subject is here for my research.”

“I’ll make sure that he shows up for your tests.” 76 felt sick to his stomach for making the promise but until Gabriel had actually recovered and they found a way to get out, he really had no choice but to cooperate. He scooped up the file on her desk to grab a peek at the hacker she’d been trying to sell. Sure enough, the black and white photograph clipped to the front of the paperwork was of a pre-teen girl with a raider-style sort of haircut and an expression that lended a bad attitude. “Do you really think this girl of yours can affect him?”

“For his sake, let’s hope so. Otherwise he’s going to the scrap heap, should Father have his way.”

The synth pressed his lips together and shrugged off the wall. “Right. Well, I’m going to grab some grub and put him to bed.”

“Very well. Have fun,” she flashed a sarcastic smile and turned her chair to glower at her terminal monitor. “I’ll see you both at seven in the morning. Not a minute later.”

“Not a minute later,” he saluted and punched his access number in to the keypad to enter the small room where Gabriel was lounging on the white sofa looking bored out of his mind. 76 removed his mask and clipped it to his belt, more comfortable with showing his face now that he was out from under Moira's brutal gaze. “So… How’d it go?”

“This place is absolutely fucking miserable,” Gabe grumbled and motioned at the plain walls. “Where’s all the color? Christ... So much fucking WHITE. Everything’s WHITE. God damn it. Haven't these people got any taste down here?”

“The floors are blue,” 76 countered and sat on the arm of the seat. “You sort of just have to get used to it. You hungry?”

“Not particularly. I’m just tired.”

“We need to try and get some food in to you, buddy. You’re recovering from…well, we’ll just call it 'heavy trauma' and leave it at that. I’ll take you to my room to relax and I’ll grab you some food, and then we’ll clean you up and you can get some sleep. This place has real showers and I happen to know that you’re going to enjoy the hell out of them. Be nice to me and I may even show you the super-secret bath house."

Gabriel nodded silently and rose to his feet with some assistance, his body smogging with every movement. He winced but didn’t make a verbal fuss as he was led out of the room and then from the lab. Moira’s back to them while she stared at her terminal, probably irate at how things had gone with Father.

76 escorted his friend down the back hallways until they were forced to enter the primary hub to reach the stairs heading towards his quarters. Gabriel refused to look at the gawking scientists, his body still exuding black smog as he was led and half-slumped on the synth’s shoulder for support. Word of Gabriel had already gotten around the Institute but very few of the workers had actually seen him before now, and he was certainly a sight.

Once finally to the safety of his room, 76 gently dropped the cringing Gabriel on his bed, locked his door and dimmed the lights. “That any better on your eyes?”

“A little bit,” Gabe grunted and glanced around the small apartment. “This place is…nice…" Too nice.

The synth smiled sympathetically, remembering back on his similar reactions to all of the brilliant white and untarnished aluminum. “I know. It’s a bit of a culture shock. Christ knows it was a lot for me to get used to. It’s sort of strange to be back here, honestly. I'd nearly forgotten how unsettlingly-clean it is here.”

“How long did you stay here?”

76 sat on the edge of the bed, deciding what to and not to lie about. “About half a year, almost. Long enough to get accustomed to shiny floors and a real cafeteria. Let’s get you in the shower, okay? It’s got _actual_ hot water. You’ll love it.”

Gabe snorted wearily, his eyes dropping to examine the pristine comforter. “I’d rather just sleep. I’m so tired…”

“Sure,” 76 smiled gently and grabbed some dark blue blankets kept in an inset shelf against a wall to offer them over. “Then get comfortable and I’ll bring you something to snack on, okay? Just relax.”

“Right.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” the synth promised and headed towards his door.

“Were you really working for them?”

He hesitated to glance over his shoulder. Gabriel was still staring at the blankets in his lap, looking thoroughly exhausted. “Yes. Yes, I was working for them,” he admitted. “But only because I had to and because they were able to save you. Once we get your new body worked out and you’re stable, we can figure a way out of here—together. But we have to play their games until then, all right?”

“I’ll cooperate,” he mumbled, obviously half-awake at this point. “Don’t be long.”

“I won’t,” 76 promised. He smiled before slipping out, watching Gabriel drop to the bed and hug the blankets rather that actually use them, likely already passed out. The blonde sighed and headed towards the cafeteria to grab some things that would hold well over night in case Gabriel woke up and needed something in his system.

Sure enough, when he came back Gabriel was sound asleep on the mattress.

76 smiled and set the small box of food on the nightstand before grabbing another blanket and covering his cool-skinned friend. “Rest-up, Gabe,” he whispered. “I won’t let them hurt you. I promise.” It was a promise that he knew he couldn’t keep but 76 permitted the moment of self-delusion, wanting more than anything to actually keep it.

Moira would undoubtedly make Gabriel suffer so long as he was under her care, always over-eager to tear things apart and now with a subject that could literally piece himself back together again. The only way to protect Gabe would be to escape, but that seemed impossible now with the nanites being so easily tracked.

The only other scientist at the Institute with the experience and know-how to deal with the issue was Dr. Ziegler. He needed to speak with her.

He shut off the lights and sat in the chair across from the bed. It would make for an uncomfortable night’s sleep but he didn’t want Gabriel to wake up without him close by. 76 closed his eyes and allowed his brain to shut off, wheels turning slower until they permitted him to quietly drift to sleep.

 

The next couple of weeks stretched long and hard. Gabriel was slowly but steadily recovering from his reanimation and spent most of his time stuck in the Genetics lab with Moira and a very regretful Dr. Ziegler, who was making a gargantuan effort to help him adjust to not only his new biology but to life in the Institute. 76 was grateful for Angela’s mammoth patience in dealing with the still very frustrated Gabriel, who suffered bouts of intense pain and inability to keep his shape for long periods. Angela was determined to help him, driven by pity and guilt, but at least the wraith seemed to have taken to her well enough. In contrast, he still loathed Moira and went out of his way to make things hard for her until 76 reeled his temper in and convinced him to cooperate.

More interviews with the Director had followed, and Shaun kept a very close eye on the development of Moira’s research, demanding to be given daily reports on her findings. 76 managed to dampen some of the scientist’s rage and distrust, swearing that he’d keep an eye on Gabriel and that he wouldn’t harm any more Institute personnel, all of whom saw Gabe as nothing more than a monster.

In the aftermath of Project Reaper’s fruition and consequent shutdown, 76 had turned himself in for a psychological evaluation, per his previous assurance to the ever-watchful X6-88. Luckily, he knew by now all the right things to say and had passed Dr. Zimmer’s exams without fault, but that had led to another problem: Zimmer wanted to bring him in as a real Courser, meaning that he'd be hunting escaped synths to return them to the Institute for wiping and/or subsequent termination. The thought had him on edge. 76 had no personal interest in spending the rest of his time at the Institute tracking his own kind in the overworld, but if it meant he could be with Gabriel, then it was something he was willing to do. His first assignment was any day now and the idea made him queasy. He just had to keep his eye on the prize.

76 would gladly mow down anything and anyone standing between them, even another synth.  

Gabriel was worth it. He was worth all of it.

Luckily for him, efforts had been made to keep his own identity as a synth a secret, but only because 76 was more useful in keeping their resident Reaper under control if Gabriel didn’t know the truth. Even Moira was well-aware of the consequences, should he find out. This had led to a unique situation where everyone in the Institute had been ordered to refer to him as Jack or simply 76, even in casual conversation, to make certain that Gabriel didn’t become suspicious of otherwise. It was probably going to be the only period of his existence where the Institute referred to him as a human, and 76 was going to enjoy it while he could.

They were lounging as comfortably as possible in the stiff aluminum chairs of the Genetics lab, eating some paste that the kitchen was trying to pass as legitimate oatmeal when they got the news.

“Ms. Colomar shall be arriving shortly,” Moira’s voice practically twinkled with enthusiasm.

“You mean the kid you think can reprogram me or some shit?” Gabriel scowled and took another bite of his steamed carrots. He hadn’t exactly hidden his distaste for what passed as cuisine at the Institute, but 76 mostly just found the wraith’s bitching as sort of endearing. Gabriel was determined to get behind the counter and at one point had actually threatened the Gen-1 that worked there when he’d been served ‘ _some bullshit excuse for steak tips_ ’ once. The staff would probably have tranquilized him at that point, if it worked—which it wouldn’t—and 76 had to practically pull him out of the Mess Hall, kicking and screaming. He was used to Gabe’s fiery temperament, but the rest of the staff didn’t think it so adorable.

“The very one,” Moira hummed and checked some more results on her terminal from her morning’s tests. Every day Gabriel’s blood samples were returning consistent signs of more and more nanites, something that seemed to always perk her up, even when her day went poorly. 76 had noticed she had the tendency to look the results up in the evenings, probably to make up for any crap that went on during her afternoon. People at the Institute still didn’t much care for her or her techniques, not that Moira particularly cared, but it always made her day-to-day work a challenge. “I honestly believe that you’ll take to her well. Sombra is quite, as you say…spunky. Her temperament should be to your liking.”

“Right. I’m sure she’s a fucking joy,” Gabriel rolled his eyes, which were still foggy with cataracts. Angela didn’t think the cataracts were going to go away any time soon, seeming to be a side-effect of the nanites or something or other, but Gabriel expressed that he could see just fine. Tests had proven that he could see more than ‘just fine’, however. He struggled to decipher faces or fine details in shapes but made up for it by identifying people and living creatures through several solid feet of concrete. How he managed this, Moira and Angela had no freaking clue, and Gabriel was evasive about the subject, insisting that he could ‘just see them’. There had to be something more to it than that, but whatever it was he wasn’t telling 76 anything special. “You don’t seriously believe that she can hack me like some damn terminal, do you? I may have machines in my blood but I don’t think that quite puts me in the same category.”

The red-head leered at him, blue and red eyes glinting in that way that always made 76 fidget in his seat. “I suppose that we shall find out, won’t we?”

Gabriel snorted in dry response, never intimidated or impressed by anything that Moira said or did, and flicked his white eyes to scowl down at his dinner. “I hope you don’t think that I’m just going to play nice with her, kid or not. I’m not particularly excited at the prospect of being poked by yet another set of hands.”

“Cooperate or be exterminated; it’s that simple. You really do overcomplicate things for yourself.”

Moira and Gabriel really were a battle of wills. It was a fight that 76 was always immediately weary of. There was never a winner and no one walked away with anything more than irritation, but they both insisted to continue their little war and he usually ended up getting stuck between them.

“76 knows it’s best that you cooperate, don’t you?”  Yup. There it was.

The blonde sighed and finished pretending to be chewing before setting his dinner tray down and sipping his water. “If we don’t keep Father happy, your life’s on the line, Gabe.” 76 hated taking Moira’s side, especially when she grinned as smugly as she was doing now, but she wasn’t wrong. “He could call for your death over literally anything. Or nothing at all. He’s the word of law around here so we have to keep him happy, and that means making sure the Institute has a fall-back plan in case you freaked out.”

“Freaked out,” Gabriel fumed, his shoulders smoldering. “You mean turn in to a fucking monster.”

76’s lips curved downwards. “Gabe, come on. You know I don’t think you’re going to do that. You’re not a monster. But you ARE dangerous, undead or otherwise. You’re a killer.”

“So are you,” he sneered.

“Yeah, but I sort of work for them and I can’t turn in to smoke.” And he could be turned in to a zombie with a simple code phrase, but Gabriel didn’t need to ever find out about that.

“Then I’ll work for them.”

“What?”

Gabriel shrugged and slid his tray away, food half-eaten. “I’ll fucking work for them. Give me a job. I’ll do it. I have no reason not to. I’m a freak, Jack. Ain’t fucking nobody going to hire an undead super-mutant cyborg ghost man.”

“Oh my god, did you just say ain’t? Christ, you’re actually losing your mind.”

“Shut the hell up, Morrison. I spent too much time with Jesse.”

76 could practically see Gabriel’s brain screech to a halt. Those milky eyes immediately turned away before dropping, and Gabe clenched his fingers in to fists hard enough to drizzle blood on to the blue floors. Silver and red pooled at his feet before turning black and streaking back in to the wraith’s body. No matter how many times 76 witnessed similar things during all of the testing, the sight remained unsettling.

Gabriel hadn’t spoken of Jesse since his death, not a word, and the synth had made an effort to avoid the topic. Good job, 76. Good job.

But before he could open his mouth to apologize or offer something like comfort for Gabe’s losses, the door to the lab opened and a young woman strode in, accompanied by a familiar, straight-faced Courser.

“I have escorted Ms. Colomar through standard Institute protocol. She has been checked in, provided a badge and given clearance for working so long as Father deems appropriate. He is requesting an interview with her in the morning at 0600 and a full report on your work this evening.”

“Thank you, 88,” Moira smirked and straightened her tie as she stood from her desk to greet the young girl. “You may go.”

The Courser nodded stiffly and vacated as quickly and quietly as he’d arrived. At least he wasn’t going to stick around and be a thorn in 76’s side for the night.

The girl was just that—a girl. A child. She was a damn child. No older than maybe thirteen, 76 guessed, and still in that awkward phase of growth. She was on the short and petit side with cinnamon-colored skin, and had a heart-shaped face with dark brown hair that was buzzed on the left side and flowed down in waves of stained purples on the right. Her outfit was ratty but stylish for someone from above ground: a red and pink Nuka Cola World t-shirt under a blue-jean jacket, tight black pants freckled with holes and slashes in the fabric, and pink high-top sneakers. She flipped up her purple sunglasses to reveal a pair of large and vibrant violet eyes, and 76 practically had to swallow a gasp. He’d never seen eyes that color before, at least not in a normal human. “Yo, losers,” the child saluted and blew a bright pink bubble with the gum she was obnoxiously smacking. “Name’s Sombra.”

“Charming,” Moira smiled sarcastically and shook the girl’s hand. “I’m Dr. Moira O’Deorain. We’ve spoken in the past.”

“Yeah, yeah. Nice place you got here, lady. Like all the tech you got. Definitely my scene.”

“Yes, I do believe that you shall find the Institute to your liking.”

“So who’s the lame robot dude I get to fuck with, eh? Apuesto a que es el tipo grande con la piel gris.”

“You’d be right,” Gabriel grumbled and stood to his full height, his body smoking with every movement in a show obviously meant to intimidate her.

Sombra, however, was not intimidated. “Holy shit, you’re like a fog demon,” she smirked and circled him, giving Gabe’s sides and back a poke with her painted fingernails. “Eso es tan rudo. You’re kind’f hot.” Gabriel and Moira rolled their eyes in unison but Sombra only sniggered. “Holy shit. So you’re some sort of cyborg or somethin’?”

“Something like that.”

“The doc said you had robots for blood.”

“Something like that.”

Sombra rummaged a hand in her back pocket and produced a knife, her bright pink lips coiling in to a grin that 76 wasn’t sure to read as malicious or playful in nature. Or maybe a little of both. “Let’s take a looksie, shall we?”

Gabriel’s lips curled back to flash the jagged fangs hidden beneath and that did seem to unsettle the girl just a bit because she took a single step backwards. The guy wasn't a particular fan of knives nowadays. “Come near me with that thing and I’ll rip your legs off, brat.”

“Hey,” 76 stood and put a hand between the pair. Moira might have been willing to see what would happen if Gabriel lost his temper, she might even have been encouraging it to test this Sombra girl’s abilities, but 76 wasn’t so willing to push him. “Let’s try and get along, shall we?”

Sombra hummed and gave him a once-over. “And who are you?”

“Jack Morrison, also known as Agent 76. I’m a Courser here at the Institute and an old friend of Gabriel’s.”

Her violet eyes flickered with something the blonde decided was dangerous. “Y’mean SS-76, right?” How the hell did she know that?

“Agent SS-76. That’s my Institute designation, yes.”

“Designation,” Sombra hummed thoughtfully. “Right. So, you’re the famous Jack Morrison, eh? The Gunner Strike Commander guy?” she purred and blew another bubble large enough for it to pop before pulling the sticky pink candy back into her mouth with a pierced tongue.

“That would be me, yeah. Ex-Gunner, by the way. I’m retired.”

“Sure, sure. Strangest thing, though,” she tilted her head and pouted her lower lip, feigning confusion. “Last I heard, Morrison was dead.”

76 resisted the urge to glower at Moira and kept his blue eyes on Sombra’s face. “My untimely demise was a bit exaggerated.”

She chewed loudly and blew another bubble. “Gunners are pretty damn meticulous with their records. Sure seemed like you bit the big one saving that Jimmerson kid. Jimmy, right? That’s what you guys called him?” 76 felt his blood chill and Sombra just kept that same sarcastic, threatening expression and blew another bubble. “He sure seemed convinced that you’d died. Why would he lie about something like that? Sort’f weird, don’t you think? I mean, he even bailed right after that. Kind’f weird to lie about someone dying without gaining a damn thing. Hm.”

“I didn’t come out but he saw me fighting mutants. He made the safest assumption.”

She hummed loudly and giggled before reaching up to poke 76 in the cheek. “ _Boop_. You’re a terrible liar, Jackie. Anyone ever told you that? But the question is _why_ are you lying? You got something to hide under that pretty face'f yours?”

“Sombra,” Moira finally began to interject, but the girl kept going like a cat closing in on a blonde-haired mouse.

“Is it maybe because you’re _not_ Jack Morrison?”

“SOMBRA,” Moira barked. “That’s ENOUGH. Stop harassing Agent 76 and let’s get to work with your testing.”

Sombra cackled and flicked those violet eyed at the silent Gabriel. She blew a bubble and winked before turning and bouncing over to flop in to one of Moira’s lab chairs, rolling it around and slamming it in to the side of some equipment. 76 pretended to be concerned about her childish activities, keeping his eyes on Olivia, because he could feet Gabriel’s cloudy gaze boring in to him.

Shit, shit, shit.

The teenager locked gazes with 76, deep and knowing, and she gave another one of those distinctively mischievous little smirks before she pushed one final time. “That X6-88 guy sure was boring. I hope the rest of the synths here aren’t so bland, ugh.”

Moira and 76 didn’t have time to react. Gabriel slammed the blonde against the wall by the neck, sliding 76 in the air and threatening to crush his spinal cord just by grip alone. 76 wailed mutely, the sound coming out as only spurts of strangled air as he kicked his feet in the air and grabbed at Gabriel’s muscular arm. But there was no use. He wasn’t going anywhere. Gabriel’s eyes were flaring a furious, pained crimson, and his body was pure black, snakes of smog flailing and coiling around him.

“YOU’RE A SYNTH!” Gabriel roared, voice hollow of anything but rage. “YOU’RE NOT REAL!”

76 gasped for air and struggled, trying his best to shake his head, but Gabriel wouldn’t allow it.

“GABRIEL, STOP!” Moira commanded uselessly.

“YOU’VE BEEN LYING THIS WHOLE TIME! YOU’VE BEEN A SYNTH THIS WHOLE FUCKING TIME!  I’M GOING TO RIP YOU AP—” The wraith’s entire being flickered with pinks and violets before Gabriel slumped in to a pile on the floor, dropping 76 from the wall and landing him on top of him.

76 grabbed his throat and gasped for air, wheezing and coughing as oxygen relieved the burning in his lungs. “YOU!” he managed between hacked breaths. The synth jabbed an angry finger at Sombra, who was standing, hand and forearm glowing in streaks of color from her fingers.

The girl shrugged and smiled smugly. “Hey, there's nothing better than live practice.”

Moira smiled and shook the girl’s small hand. “That was completely out of the line, but you’ve proven your point. Welcome to the fold, Agent Sombra.”

“Glad to be here, Doc,” she winked and blew another bubble, completely unaware or uncaring of the hell she’d just unleashed while 76 ran his hands through Gabriel’s peppery hair and did his best not to look completely obliterated. “Can’t wait to get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sombra's a little shit.
> 
> Next chapter, Moira begins her studies on Reaper and 76 desperately attempts to regain Gabriel’s absolutely devastated trust.


	16. Misery Comes in Many Forms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moira's experiments begin, and Reaper attempts to cope with his losses.

He really should have figured it out. The crumbs were all there, right in fucking front of him, but Gabriel just hadn’t wanted to even consider it as a feasibility—that ‘Jack’ really wasn’t Jack at all.

Jack was dead. He was dead and Gabriel had fallen for his replacement.

He now understood halos to be dead giveaways, always indicating a synth. Their artificial souls were trapped in their skulls, which made sense once he found out how synths were made. Everything that made them individuals was programmed in a tiny piece of plastic, which the Institute scientists used to control them from the inside-out. The prospect was terrifying, really, particularly now that he had a firm grasp on the essence of life, though what qualified as ‘humanity’ had certainly now come in to question.

Were synths even people? Gabriel didn’t fucking know.

The ghost in his blood now mocked him tirelessly, wretchedly-elated at Gabriel’s suffering. _I warned you_ , it cackled from its hiding place in the black depths. _I warned you that the creature wasn’t legitimate, but you didn’t listen to me, and now look where you are—trapped underground, dead and absolutely alone. You should have listened._

Gabriel didn’t care that he’d died. He didn’t care that he’d been yanked back to life as some undead monster. He didn’t even care about being stuck as a lab-rat for the rest of this second life, however long it would last. All that mattered was that Jack Morrison was long-gone and that Gabriel had been such a fool to fall for SS-76’s games.

An idiot. He’d been such a god damn IDIOT.

76 had been too perfect a facsimile of pre-SEP Jack. It should have been evident that something was off, but Gabriel had wanted it so badly he’d been blinded. He’d wanted for Jack to be alive. He’d wanted Jack to come back to him. And he’d wanted so badly for Jack to be the sunny doofus he’d once known him to be. 76 had been exactly what Gabriel had been asking for. He really should have known that he didn’t deserve it enough for any of it to be true.

Jack was dead. Dead, dead, dead. The knowledge kept pummeling his brain and what remained of Gabriel’s heart, but it was still difficult to comprehend or accept. The worst part of it was that SS-76 was so close to being Jack that it was going to rip what was left of Gabriel’s humanity to shreds. The thought of having to see the copy day in and say out was nearly more than he could handle.

76 had to die. But getting to him wasn’t going to be easy, and it would require every last granule of Gabriel’s rage and pain and willpower to go through with it. Even knowing that the blonde was a fake, the thought of him disappearing shot waves of pain through the wraith’s chest and split his bones.

What was worse: being haunted by the synth’s perfect fucking smile, or snuffing out the only remainder of what had once been Jack Morrison? Either would cause him nothing but suffering.

Fifteen brutal days had passed since the revelation that had shattered the only worthwhile remains of his world. Gabriel had only caught fleeting sight of the pretty-eyed synth a handful of times, and each time had lanced his heart to the floor. Of course he didn’t have to see SS-76 to know where he was. The blonde’s soul was so luminous that it outshone every other in the facility. Gabriel kept his sight to the material plain as well as he could in effort to ignore it, but it burst in to his field of vision with or without the wraith’s desire with such passive authority that Gabriel had mapped out 76’s daily routine.

It was four in the afternoon, meaning that the synth was in the SRB, probably training Coursers. Gabriel could feel the sun shimmer in the corner of his vision, but he was luckily facing the opposite direction and therefore didn’t have to directly deal with the damn thing blazing at him. Well, maybe ‘lucky’ was a poor word to use.

He was sitting in Moira’s lab, waiting for her to come harass him some more. He’d been there pretty much all day every day since his complete meltdown, unable to escape on his own due to being traced and with the damn brat able to drop him like a sack of tatos at a moment’s notice. It’s not like he had anywhere worth running away to, anyways. The only thing had had meant anything in his life was gone, and his clone was here. Gabriel couldn’t bring himself to even try to leave.

He was so fucking pathetic.

His babysitter was lounging on a white couch set up against the far wall, humming and filing her pink nails. Sombra was a child but she might as well be an adult for how intelligent and witty she was. Once upon a time, he might have actually liked her. Even extended a hand to her. Maybe try to help her get her life organized. But now all he wanted to do was rip that smug fucking smile right off her pretty little face, child or not.

These times were probably the worst in Gabriel’s life. These long, drawn-out hours of absolute misery and loneliness, encompassed by the white and the glass, trying and failing to cope with everything that had happened and all that he’d done. He’d chased off and killed his own men, murdered Jesse just for trying to help him, mistaken a synth for Jack, and had ultimately died for nothing. Everything that Gabriel had worked for and cherished was burned away, leaving him with nothing but a husk for a soul and cold skin and guts made of metal.

Gabriel Reyes as the world had known him was dead.

There was only Reaper now.

 

Reaper had turned out to be been more valuable than Moira could have ever expected him to be. He was a biological gold mine of genetic mutation. His blood and tissue samples had progressed her research exponentially, pushing her imagination to places it had never considered in the past. Thanks to her work with Dr. Ziegler and Virgil, she’d been able to quietly break down and categorize the self-upgraded nanites her subject was now synthesizing, finding that they were reproducing themselves in his marrow and managing to piece together how they cooperated with the now contained virus. A few techniques here and there, only slightly borrowed from her peers and altered according to her own interests and requirements, and Moira had finally come to not only understand the workings of Reaper but could now safely harness them for herself.

Unbeknownst to anyone, she’d performed tests on animal subjects and some due-to-be-destroyed synths—safely disposing of them afterwards, of course—with wild success. It was time for a human test subject.

Moira was nothing short of unconditionally confident in her work. Confident enough that taking the risk of snagging a legitimate human to inject seemed senseless. She ran her serum through the many vats and cylinders and processed it all in machinery of various shapes and sizes before it was ready, and sat in her black examination chair. The geneticist stuck the vial of fizzing fluid in to the applicator, preparing for insertion and setting it to the side to roll up her sleeve. She wrapped her arm at the elbow and grabbed a syringe. Without concern or hesitation, Moira injected herself with the purple serum and watched as her veins spidered in to dark lines under the skin, feeling like the biological ducts were being turned to a cold clay. It was a peculiar but not terribly uncomfortable sensation that quickly dissolved itself. She watched the streaks vanish as the fluid dispersed in to her greater vascular system, her insides beginning to tingle as they were permanently reformed in to something miraculous.

The genetic modifications would take a few days to take effect. Based on her trials, she’d suffer nausea, light-headedness, and pain, with her symptoms progressively worsening for the next two days until waning away over the course of approximately twelve hours, leaving her as an evolved human with no residual side-effects. Her test subject hadn’t been so fortunate, but the whole point of the project was to learn and benefit from the results of Reaper’s death and augmentations. Once Father had seen what she’d done, he’d be an absolute fool not to see the program as a success, though whether she’d be willing to share her findings was now in question.

Moira knew how and when to keep her best cards in her sleeves, including her most valuable findings. If she handed over the ability for the Institute to create an army of wraithing Coursers, there was no guarantee that her efforts would be acknowledged or even congratulated. For now, she’d document her results and decide from there.

She rolled her sleeves down and cleaned her personal lab, making certain to leave no evidence behind, and pulled on her lab coat before heading to check on her black rabbit. “Good evening,” Moira greeted and approached her weary-eyed subject. Reaper nearly always looked exhausted, likely drained from the constant physical pain that he experienced. Unfortunately for him, she’d not been compelled to fix the issue and Dr. Ziegler had yet to cure him of it herself without also killing his nanites. Moira’s had no need for the virus to keep them stable like Reyes’ did, but keeping him in pain also served to remind him that he was under their control, though Sombra’s presence was likely more than enough to deter him from acting out. “How are you feeling this evening?”

“Like shit.”

“So, the same as usual?” she teased. Reaper glowered from the corner of his cataracts but Moira just sniggered and made a notation of his continued discomfort. “We’re going to do something special tonight. Are you excited?”

“I'm biting at the bit, Doc.”

She moved to her terminal to log in, checking messages and ignoring all of them in favor of pulling up some of her research on genetic modifications. Reaper’s genes were heavily modified and left his cells in a constant state of flux, similarly to a super-mutant, which opened windows for her to research things in him that she hadn’t been able to do in most of her test subjects. Virgil’s research was exponentially useful in this regard, and she was eager to see what she could do with it.

Zimmer had left a message regarding their collaboration project on designing a Courser, so she made a mental note to actually read that later.

“Has he been a good little rabbit for you, Agent Sombra?”

“Heh? Oh, uh, yeah. He’s been fine or whatever. Mostly quiet and brooding and staring at the wall and all that edgy shit he likes doing. Todavía llorando por su novio, supongo.”

Reaper snarled and shot the teenager a hot glare, his eyes flaring an angry neon red. He was such an interesting creature.

“Now, now. Calm down, children,” Moira scolded evenly and opened a fridge that contained various samples she was interested in testing. She grabbed the black one and locked the door to prepare the vial for insertion. “Don’t make me take away your crayons.”

Sombra stuck out her tongue. “Gabe started it.” Even though she’d been instructed to refer to the subject as ‘Reaper’, Sombra continued to insist upon calling him by his human name, most often seeming to be little more than an attempt to irritate him, which was the only reason that Moira didn’t berate her over the habit.

“Te voy a destrozar algún día, mocoso.”

“Yeah, yeah. Yeah. Estoy muy asustada.”

Moira sighed to herself and filled a syringe with the tar-like serum before injecting it in to her irritated subject. Reaper never put up a fight with her anymore, already reserved to a life of unending experiments.

“So what’s this shit going to do to me, today?” he grumbled and rolled his shoulder.

“I’ve located a unique strand of suppressed genes contained within the virus and am attempting to activate them,” she explained while setting her tools aside for cleaning.

“Again?” he frowned. “The last time you did this, I couldn’t keep my shape for three solid fucking days. That was miserable.”

“Hopefully I’ve managed to avoid the worst of the side-effects this attempt,” she responded dryly and turned on a recorder against the wall. “Please communicate any sensations you are experiencing.”

“It hurts.”

“Please elaborate.”

Reaper grumbled in the childish way he always did when bothered but conceded only a bit bitterly, “It burns. But it’s cold. If that makes sense.” He went quiet for a long moment before hissing and grabbing his head, a stream of English and Spanish curses pouring from his mouth. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!”

Moira calmly observed the reaction, scribbling the proceeds on her notepad. “Exactly what I told you. I activated some genes. Why? Are you experiencing increasing pain? I need you to talk to me.”

His body pitched to black and began to smoke, the nanites shredding him to billions of tiny pieces that sizzled in black streamers off his visage. Reaper’s eyes were the only discernable color in the pitch, two slits of red that quickly turned in to several more.

Sombra rose to her feet in alarm but Moira held a hand to keep her from stopping him as the miasma snarled.

“Can you hear me? Reaper? Respond.” Moira took a wary step back as the black mass roared and expanded, the cloud of angry tendrils whipping and lashing before they began to take shape.

Its body was long and sinuous, black moss and fur hanging like rotting flesh over a skeletal figure with a beaked deer skull for a head, those seven eyes glowing a hideous red. It had two sets of arms, one with human-like hands bearing enormous black, bird-like talons, and another, lower set bearing black sickle-like blades. Its back legs resembled some sort of hoofed animal’s, and its tail was a coiling mass of mangled hair and vines. Twigs and fur and leaves burst in exaggerated layers from behind its skull, making it look larger than it really was, and ran all the way down its partially-exposed spine. From its shoulder-blades sprout ghostly wing-like projections of pure smog, and its entire form shifted constantly with the same, half-distinguishable presence, like it wasn’t entirely there at all. The beast leered its many eyes down at the women from its hovering position, black ooze drizzling in a pool from its fanged beak and dissolving the blue linoleum floor.

It was absolutely exquisite.

The only thing more shocking than its appearance was its smell, which was an abhorred, rancid odor that had both of them covering their mouths to keep from puking. Moira had smelled decomposing bodies many times in the past, but nothing had come close.

What had she done, indeed.

In the center of Moira’s brain came a sudden and stabbing ache; a heavy and pulsing poison that bloomed and pooled as though her grey matter was being melted from the inside. The beast loomed its dusk over them when spreading those hideous, impossible wings, and the geneticist felt her legs stumble beneath her, nearly giving out from under the creature’s alien oppression.

Beside her, Sombra was struggling to keep conscious. She’d already lost the battle with her stomach and had thrown up its contents. The girl wailed in agony when a voice boomed and echoed off the walls of their skulls, further making their brains feel like they were sloshing in their heads. “ _I hunger_ ,” was all Moira could make out, though whatever the sound was constructed of was no language that she knew. It was offensive; cruel and sordid and hollow. Even for a scientist such as herself with absolutely no faith in a higher power of any kind, Moira understood this monstrosity to be an offense to Nature.

The beast outstretched its skeletal hands towards them and she innately understood that it was going to withdraw something of consequence from their essence. If they couldn’t escape or stop this…thing…they were going to experience something worse than a simple death. She didn’t have a damn clue what it was, but with the way her insides coiled and cried, as though her instinctual everything was panicking like a helpless child, it was something she wanted no part of.

But before she could consider any possibilities, Olivia shrieked and held out both of her hands, her body pulsing violets that fluctuated and reverberated through the beast’s pitch and upsetting its visage. It shrilled and twisted backwards, its form collapsing and becoming a mass of infuriated tendrils that lashed out at the pair and all around. Moira snatched the teenager and dropped them both to the floor, rolling behind a terminal as the mass slashed through the metal as though it weren’t even there. The lights sparked and exploded, pitching the room to black. The snarling and roaring nightmare ended a few seconds later, and the lab fell to an uncomfortable silence.

Once certain whatever had happened was over, Moira cursed and moved to snatch a flashlight from a drawer. Olivia shuddered and prayed in Spanish on the floor while the woman stood to inspect her subject.

Reaper was back to ‘normal’, lying face-down in the middle of the floor, arms splayed out in awkward positions. The geneticist dashed to check his pulse; he was alive but unconscious, and his heart was slamming in his veins.

“WH...WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”

“The perfection of his virus,” Moira answered, voice shaking even though her fear had subsided. She’d never before been afraid, not of anything.

“It was a MONSTER!”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I am going to suppress the genes as best as I can to ensure this cannot happen again, purposeful or otherwise. I cannot purge Reaper of this issue but I can at least bury it behind a chemical wall.”

Sombra unhurriedly rose from where she was hiding and wiped her mouth with her sleeve, still shivering. “Did you KNOW that was going to happen?” she panted, still working to catch her breath.

“No. That was the point.” Moira turned on a backup generator and immediately turned on her terminals that hadn’t been absolutely destroyed. The room was in ruins. Strips of metal and chunks of machinery were all over the place, cut to ribbons by whatever that thing was. But luckily what she required was still in-tact, and it was only a few minutes after the machines had turned on until she’d produced what she needed and injected it in to the still unconscious man.

“You sure that’ll work?”

“Relatively.”

“RELATIVELY? Holy fucking shit, lady.”

“Thank you for your quick thinking, Sombra. You very likely saved both our lives.”

“Right… I guess it still had enough nanites for me to affect it… Whatever it was… I attempted to disrupt their communications, which seems to work on Gabe. It was the best bet I had.”

“It seems to be an effective method to deactivate him temporarily. I’ll make certain that we have an EMP ready in the lab at all times, in case we need it. Good job.”

“Listen, if this shit happens again, I’m getting the hell out’f here. I like it here but not enough for whatever the fuck THAT was supposed to be. Christ!”

“Noted. You should rest while I handle this mess,” Moira nodded. “If anyone asks, direct their inquiries to me.”

Sombra nodded, horror still lingering in her violet eyes, and she turned to awkwardly shuffle towards the exit. “Right… See you tomorrow, or whatever…”

“Yes.” Moira didn’t look at her as Sombra shambled off, keeping her eyes firmly on the slumbering mutant at her feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“I heard that you had an accident in your lab last night.”

Moira looked up from her pasta, busy reviewing some notes from the catastrophe of an experiment the night before, and offered a polite grin to Dr. Virgil as he sat beside her with his lunch tray. She’d spent the better part of the night cleaning the place up of evidence before grabbing some synths to finish the job. The serum she’d put in her own veins was only now beginning to feel heavy, and her brain was starting to fog and begin the initial side-effects of exhaustion. She just had to make it through the next few days and she’d be in the clear. “Nothing to be concerned about, I assure you. A simple malfunction.”

“Malfunction? Rumor mill is that your lab was destroyed.”

“Reaper continues to be a challenging subject to study,” she admitted and took a bite of her food before returning her red and blue eyes towards her tablet. “He had a short episode, but Agent Sombra handled it quite well. The damage to my lab is inconsequential. All data was backed up.”

“That thing’s dangerous, Moira. He could have killed you!”

“He didn’t," she blinked up at him slowly. "Now then, to what do I owe the pleasure of your conversation?”

“I’d say I just came to say hello but that would be a lie." Virgil poked at his pasta some with a two-pronged fork. “Father finally cleared my FEV program.”

Moira’s expression lit up and she upturned her attention back towards her peer. “He did? Congratulations, Doctor. Does this mean that I can look forward to reading new papers?”

“Yes. I was also hoping that maybe you’d be interested in getting your hands a little dirty.”

Her eyes sparkled. “You’re requesting my assistance?”

“Of course. You’re the head of genetics around here,” Virgil smiled. “I’d like no one better at my side to make certain that _Project: Widowmaker_ is fulfilled. I could use your help with the genetics half of it. FEV can be tricky sometimes. The only trick is that the Board is demanding that I continue the old FEV studies, as well… Just seems…pointless. The strains they used were so useless. Nothing came of it. But if it means I get to push Widowmaker forward then it’d worth the frustration. I’m going to design the ultimate FEV strain. But I could really use the help of an experienced geneticist.” Virgil winked and elbowed her playfully.

Of every fool that she had to work with, he’d always been her favorite. He’d just reminded her why.

Moira flashed a pleased grin, her eyelids lowering. “I’d be happy to assist you with your program, Doctor. Widowmaker shall come to fruition, between us, just as Reaper did. When do we begin?”

“Fantastic! We start this weekend. The SRB is locating me some appropriate test subjects. I should have a handful by Sunday morning to start the baseline testing.”

“I look forward to working together, Doctor. We’re going to make sure that your work in the field of FEV strain manipulation and psychology to be acknowledged.”

“Thank you, Dr. O’Deorain,” Virgil nodded gratefully. “I’ll send you the paperwork on the rest of my research tonight for your review.”

Moira nodded back and he stood to take his meal back towards his lab.

Virgil didn’t need to know that she already had a copy of all of his research.

 

Three months came and went. The only reason he knew that was because the calendars told him so. There was no way to know what the outside world looked like to keep his days straight. No sunlight or moonlight to track the hours, only the same disgusting whites and fluorescent lights blinding him all hours of the day. His internal clock had been completely shot, and Reaper found the entire situation to be miserable. If it weren’t for his self-destructive need to keep an eye on SS-76, he’d gladly have returned to fucking oblivion than deal with this hell of aluminum and glass.

After nine brutal weeks suffering Moira’s treatments and experiments, Father had finally agreed to permit him to wander the premises unaccompanied. Sombra kept her eye on him and the entire faculty and all of their stupid robots were armed and prepared to shut him down with specially-crafted EMP pulsars or something like that. Whatever. He was fine with knowing they could drop him. If it made them think they were any safer and if it gave him some freedom, it was acceptable. The wraith knew how to cooperate and how to keep out of peoples’ way.

When he wasn’t being poked with needles or being yelled at by some egghead, Reaper spent most of his time exploring the Institute, memorizing the halls and air ducts for future use, if necessary. He’d also made good use of their rather impressive library, something Father seemed to actually encourage. The scientists there scoffed at him when Gabriel picked some of the more complicated books off the shelves, but he blatantly ignored them and would ghost away to a back room and gorge himself on the information, even if he didn’t completely understand it all. He would, in time.

It looked like becoming a demon hadn’t quelled his thirst for knowledge.

He was working through a chemistry book when a soul shimmered around the corner and grabbed his attention. According to a clock on the wall it was 3:06 A.M., not really the sort of time he’d see Ziegler stalking the back halls, but there she was, trying and failing to keep from being noticed. The abandoned old labs close to where the digger synths slept in this subsection—the ones that looked like humans, like _him_ —were a good place to go unnoticed if you knew how to keep out of sight, but she couldn’t hide from Reaper’s new eyes. No one could. Not even fake humans or robots.

Time and experience and his nanites’ guidance had illuminated more than simple souls in his new vision. Gabriel could see energy itself—a faint glow around anything that sparked with life or electricity. This enabled him to better see the world without his material vision working as well anymore. He could sense the technology all around him and feel the bugs crawling in the rocks beyond the walls, and the Gen-1 and 2 synths with their strange frames of metal and skins of plastic now inertly gave their positions away. He couldn’t sense technology nearly as well as life, but it was better than nothing and he’d fucking take it.

He marked his place in his book and set it down on an ancient aluminum coffee table before dicing himself to black smoke and solidifying behind her. “Morning, doc.” Ziegler yelped in surprise at his intrusion, and he grabbed her and covered her mouth, holding the position until she got the idea and hushed. “You’re not doing yourself any favors screaming,” Reaper rumbled quietly and released her. “The fuck are you doing down here?” She was one of the worst in the facility when it came to getting proper rest, usually only sleeping about five hours a day, but Reaper had clocked her to typically be taking a nap in the back room of the med-bay around now.

“Gabriel… I…didn’t expect to see you down here…”

“Reaper,” he corrected.

The woman frowned and turned her eyes away before looking at the floor. “Reaper… Right…”

“I was just reading a little. The hell do you think you’re going? Personnel aren’t permitted down here without a worker’s or Courser’s clearance.” He put one of his cold fingers under her chin to force the pretty blonde to look at him. “You should be in the med-bay treating an egghead’s boo-boos or some shit. What brings you to my neck of the woods? Don’t lie,” he warned. “You know I can tell when someone lies.” Souls always had tells, though you had to learn them. Ziegler was a terrible liar, though, and she knew it. She barely ever even bothered trying.

His time in the Institute had forged a sort of friendship with the blonde doctor. _Sort of_. Not completely, but it was something. Ziegler always made an effort to help him when he was suffering and genuinely looked after his well-being. Reaper had already forgiven her for what she’d done, though it was strictly non-verbalized, showing it more by not trying to kill her or at least being mildly personable. They were always fine with casual conversation, and her aura was comforting. If he’d been attracted to women at all, maybe he’d actually have liked her some. Maybe.

Angela’s blue eyes quivered under his cataracts, and her soul pulled itself in like an animal hiding in its den.

“What are you up to?” he hummed.

“I’m leaving.”

Reaper arched a scarred eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

She stared at him for another long second before her aura began to bleed back out, relaxing. She trusted him. “Yes.”

Reaper snatched her arm and pulled the doctor into the small room, shoving her on the side of the couch where he’d been sitting; the other side had a pretty big hole in the rotting cushion. “You’re going to get yourself _killed_ ,” he growled in her face, keeping his ragged voice low.

The doctor’s expression hardened. Unlike most people, Ziegler wasn’t afraid of him and she had no qualms in showing it. Part of the reason he liked her. “I know how to get out of here without being caught.”

“I’m talking about after that, you idiot. You’ve never even BEEN topside,” Reaper scolded. “You don’t have a fucking CLUE how to survive out there. You’re going to be eaten by a god damn bloodbug or some shit. You don’t even know how to get around, for Christ's sake. You’ll be picked off by a raider in five minutes, or worse, sold in to slavery. The Commonwealth is a shitty fucking place and dangerous for naïve and pretty little doctors like you. Leave here and you’re either signing a death warrant or throwing yourself to the dogs. You have no BUSINESS being up there, Angela. Now go back to your fucking room and sleep for once, or so help me I’ll kill you my damn self.”

“May I SPEAK now?” she barked, keeping her voice as quiet as possible even as her anger shot through her slim body. “G— _Reaper_ —listen to me. I am not some helpless damsel,” Angela growled, pushing herself up so their faces were close enough that he could make out the full details of her heated expression. “I’m a combat medic. I’ve been trained in self-defense and firearms. I’ve spent the last decade studying the Commonwealth, its people, its layout and its fauna. I know exactly what I’m getting myself in to, and I can handle it.”

Reaper growled and squinted. “Oh? All right. So, tell me, where are you going to go?”

“Diamond City,” she puffed.

“The Green Jewel, eh? That’s quite a walk," he mused sarcastically. "You’ll have to go through Cambridge and cross raider-infested buildings and several Gunner outposts. Not to mention at least one fucking bridge that's virtually never unoccupied by rapists and/or human-eating assholes. You don't even have any caps to barter with, do you?”

“I’ll be FINE.”

“Do you really think you can make that trip yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, you’re an idiot,” Reaper exhaled incredulously and sat back, shaking his head. "You're seriously determined to do this, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"There's no talking you out of it?"

"No."

“Ugh. Fuck. FINE. Okay. Listen, I have contacts.” He grabbed the book and stripped a piece of empty paper from the back while Ziegler scoffed. “You have a radio at least, right?”

“Yes,” she frowned.

Gabriel grumbled to himself and pulled a pencil from his back pocket to scribble a name down before folding it and handing it to her, curling the woman’s slender fingers around it like it were made of gold. “Ana Amari. She lives with her cousin in Diamond City. The Amari’s are friends of mine—well, of _Gabriel’s_. They’ll help you. Contact Ana with that frequency as soon as you hit topside and tell her it’s a Code 24 and that you need her help. She’ll be there in a few hours to guide you and protect your back. Trust me. Just keep low and out of sight. Ana’s dependable as hell and also a 'combat medic'. You’ll like her, I promise. She's got a kid and everything."

Angela cradled the two-century-old paper and nodded, dropping her eyes again. “Thank you, but…why are you helping me? I know that I...hurt you... I did something unthinkable... Unforgivable..."

“Because you’ve made living tolerable.”

She sniffed and Reaper sighed before scooping her up and setting her back down. “No crying. You can’t be fucking crying if you’re going topside.”

“Right. No crying,” Ziegler nodded and wiped her damp eyes with the sleeve of her lab-coat.

“And you can’t be going around looking like a god damn nerd. You're too clean. You’ll need new clothes and some dirt on that pretty face to pass as a normie.”

“I have a bag of things ready,” she nodded. “Including clothes taken from kidnapped settlers for Dr, Virgil's FEV experiments.” Angela swallowed and ran a hand over her face, overwhelmed.

“They wanted you to help, didn’t they?” he guessed. She only nodded a little, now staring down at the floor in disgust. “You’re too good for this world, Angela. You’re not going to survive being so nice all the damn time. You’re going to be taken advantage of out there.”

“If I can right a single wrong, then so be it. I cannot do this anymore. I can’t and won’t.”

He rolled his eyes at her martyrdom and kissed her head. “Foolish woman. Die and I’m going to be fucking pissed. How are you going to hide from Zimmer? You know he’s got birds and synths parked in Diamond City. The place will be under full Institute control soon, I’m sure.”

“Then hopefully your friend can look after me me,” she smirked feebly and Gabriel barked a laugh.

“You’re fucking precious.”

Angela’s face reddened and she huffed before taking a few steps backwards and pushed some platinum hair behind her ear. “I’ve got to go. Wish me luck. And…thank you.”

“Good luck. Don’t die to a bloatfly,” Reaper grumped as she turned and dashed off. He grabbed his chemistry book and lounged back on the dirty couch, opening it to his marked page to continue where he’d left off.

Dr. Angela Ziegler was added to his list of people only he was allowed to kill.

 

“I can’t believe that Father’s permitting this,” an SRB scientist grumbled to his peers as Reaper entered the facility. “Letting that monster in here? He’s going to kill us all.”

“He’s apparently a good fighter,” a lab-assistant whispered. They had no clue that Reaper could hear them loud and clear through the glass wall separating them. “Father thinks it would be efficient to have him help tutor them in ways to combat different sorts of people. I mean, that 76 guy has been working out pretty great. And they used to work together, right?”

“That’s the rumor. If he’s anything like SS-76, the Coursers are in for a fucking nightmare with two of them…”

Oh, they were in for a fucking nightmare, all right. Reaper was going to use the synths like his own personal punching bags to relieve his pent-up stress. This was going to be enjoyable.

Another five weeks had raked by, and he’d received no word about Ziegler being caught. She’d been spotted entering Diamond City and working with another doctor, and had adopted the nickname ‘Mercy’ from the locals for her knack for treating people without charging them, but Zimmer had thus far been unable to effectively detain her. Angela wasn’t stupid and now had the protection of very paranoid citizens, not to mention Ana.

Ziegler seemed safe for now, but it was only a matter of time before Zimmer became emboldened. Gabriel would need to monitor the situation.

“Welcome to the SRB, Agent Reaper,” Zimmer welcomed, looking as sarcastic and smug and annoying as usual. Reaper had experience with interacting with the scientist due to Zimmer’s work with Moira, and the scientist was on the top of the wraith’s shit-list. He was an obnoxious, self-righteous son-of-a-bitch, and Gabriel was looking forward to the day to pulling out that smartass tongue and making him fucking eat it. “How do you like your uniform?”

Now being brought on as an official Institute team member or whatever, Reaper had been assigned an actual outfit. More like a costume, really. Layers of black ballistic weave were snugly fit to his body, accompanied by a black breastplate and strapped bio-metal bits and pieces on his abs, arms and thighs, all under a heavy black coat. The metal was heavy but nothing that he couldn’t bear, and served more as a source of minerals than actual protection.

Months of practice with wraithing not only himself but also materials he carried had taught Reaper how to break down more and more shit on and around him in to materials he could use for more than simple healing injuries. He could materialize items from seemingly nothing now, primarily using the ability to create his own weapons. Forging a twenty-pound metal shotgun would be too high a tax on his nanites, but he’d found a way around it by constructing only the most necessary pieces and outside coat from iron with the rest being bone and enamel that he’d managed to hoard off of dead synths and stored within the metal armor on his person. From the outside the weapons appeared perfectly normal, but the insides were a whole other monster. Even the ‘rounds’ were false, wholly constructed of his own nanites which Reaper could use to drain a subject of any minerals he required, leaving them as a rotting husk and making it virtually pointless for him to eat or drink.

In short, he was entirely self-sufficient, and Moira couldn’t be happier.

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“That mask makes Gabe look so freaking stupid, though,” Sombra snorted and reached to poke at the side of it. Reaper only mildly swat her hand away with his metal-clawed glove but she kept at it, drawing an irritated growl from her charge.

“It helps me to breathe, you little shit.” Having only one lung that was constantly degrading and healing itself made getting enough air a challenge sometimes, and he seemed to have issues drawing oxygen from the air around him. It also had the benefit of hiding his grey face and disturbing eyes from the staff, since they’d many times complained that he ‘freaked them out’.

“Todavía parece estúpido. Who the hell even designed this thing?”

“Training starts in five minutes,” Zimmer interrupted their little family spat and motioned a hand towards an open doorway. “Head through there. And, Agent Reaper, cause any issues and I will NOT hesitate to have you shut the fuck down. Do you understand?”

Gabriel squinted behind his mask, his eyes shining red through its dark pits enough that the scientist’s soul shook. “Right,” he trailed threateningly and pushed past the human to stride in to the small training room.

“Good morning, ladies. I hope you’re all ready for some running drills.”

It took everything in his power not to rush the synth and slam him against the wall.

Reaper couldn’t make the details of his face from where he was standing but he knew that SS-76 was as beautiful as always, his halo beaming like a god damn imploding star and outshining every soul in the room with absolutely no contest. He could see well enough to tell the blonde was in the same uniform as before, further making him stand out amongst the black-clad Coursers around him. He kept having to tell himself that SS-76 wasn’t Jack. He wasn’t Jack and he would never be Jack, but god damn if he didn’t hit all the right buttons. Fuck.

He hadn’t been so angry at anyone in his whole life.

It would take no energy to attack and kill 76. The synth was strong like Jack had been, but he stood no chance against Reaper’s upgrades, as evidenced by their last little encounter. But he couldn’t He couldn’t kill the perfect-eyed doppelganger. He was protected by Jack’s beautiful fucking face and Gabriel would just have to learn to deal with it.

God fucking damn it.

He felt 76’s eyes settle on him and the white-gold soul flickered with recognition before curling in on itself. The synth was scared of him. Good.

“Agent Reaper will be joining us from now on in training,” Zimmer motioned at the masked wraith, making certain all of the Coursers were paying attention.

76 approached Zimmer and leaned in. “Are you sure about this? With all due respect, Doctor, we don’t need another instructor.”

“This is Father’s orders. He wants to see what Moira’s new toy can do, particularly with her last having worked out so well. Agent Sombra is here to observe and will not be participating in our routines.”

“Yo,” she winked at the socially inept group, but they didn’t bother responding. “ _Yeesh_ … Tough crowd.”

“What can he teach them that I can’t?”

“How to properly utilize heavy firearms, for one,” Reaper snorted. “Enhanced hand-to-hand combat techniques for another. You were always shit at that. Certainly no Morrison.”

76 noticeably flinched. “Bullshit.”

“Are you two going to squabble like children for the rest of the hour, or could we actually get to some real work?”

Gabriel snorted and they both crossed their arms and turned their eyes away from one another.

“Christ, this is going to be a damn chore with you both here, isn’t it? Fantastic,” Zimmer sighed loudly and motioned for the Coursers to begin their training routines. “Everyone pair off. You two, come with me. The girl comes, too, I guess.”

It wasn’t a request.

He guided the trio in to a back room and commanded the men to sit at a small table while Sombra flopped in to a chair several feet away and continued to scroll through a tablet. 76, the ever-dutiful robot dog, immediately complied, sitting down and folding his hands on the table in a submissive gesture. Reaper, however, did not, and Dr. Zimmer glared heatedly up at him with his dark brown eyes. “SIT. DOWN.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes behind his mask but cooperated, dropping down in to the aluminum chair and lounging back. “The fuck is this about, Doc? You gonna play therapist?”

“Shut up,” he barked with just enough authority to make Reaper snort and go quiet. “I am aware you two have a history, but I don’t exactly care. This is MY branch and you will both learn to work together or so help me I’ll have you both digging out tunnels with the Gen-3’s for the rest of your waste of an immortal life. I’m going to leave you two to work this out. Do it or I’ll make sure you’ll be begging me for death.” Pathetic threats made, Zimmer stomped out, locking the door behind him like that would actually stop either of them if they wanted to leave.

“He’s a ray of fucking sunshine, isn’t he?”

“Dr. Zimmer isn’t too bad, once you get used to his…everything.”

The air fell stiff and quiet for the next several minutes while the two men desperately avoided eye contact or conversation until 76 apparently decided it had to be done.

“Nice getup.”

“Shut the hell up. I didn’t ask for it.”

“I’m sort of surprised that you haven’t killed me yet, if I’m being honest.”

“Yeah, well maybe I fucking will.”

The synth sighed and ran his hands over his face. “Shit… Listen… Gabe…”

“Reaper.”

“Ugh. Really?”

“Don’t even pretend to give a fuck—what’s your name? SS-76?”

Jack’s look-alike was close enough that Reaper could see his frown and it made him want to scream. “I know I fucked you up, okay? I know that I did.”

“Gee, that makes me feel a lot better.”

“Everything that I did, I did for you. You were dying. I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. I’m fake, yes. I’m not the real Jack. I’m nothing but a cheap copy, and I’m not worth your affection or even your forgiveness,” Reaper snorted loudly but the synth kept talking, “but I inherited his absolute devotion to you.”

“You fucking LIED to me! You MANIPULATED me!”

“Yes. I did. I would have done, and did, literally anything to keep you alive.”

“And then you let me die,” he snarled.

“Yes. I failed to protect you. I’m sorry.”

“And then you fucking let them BRING ME BACK.”

“Yes. I did.”

“And then you LIED MORE! You let me think that Jack was ALIVE. You dragged me along your little fucking game! Just because these god damn douchebags wanted me to be their personal pet monster!”

“If I didn’t lie, you wouldn’t have cooperated.” 76 dropped his blue eyes to his lap. “I was trying to get you the help you needed. I was going to tell you. I just… I was scared, all right? I was fucking terrified. I knew you’d freak out.” The way the synth’s halo ebbed, there was more to it than that, but he was being genuine and Reaper hated himself for wanting to forgive him. “I just wanted to help you, Gabe. I’m…sorry… Really… I just…wanted to help you.”

Gabriel snorted a black breath, his body stinging as smoke sizzled from his shoulders. “Whatever,” was all he could manage. “It’s over with. The damage is done. I’m fucking stuck here as a monster thanks to your shitty, selfish decisions. So let’s just agree to try and not kill one another or something so we can move on with this.”

“I was sort of hoping we could be friends.”

“Funny.”

“Come on, Gabe…”

“REAPER.”

76 sighed again and buried his face in his hands, and Gabriel felt like shit for it. The synth wasn’t Jack but he was enough Jack that seeing him in any sort of discomfort was bothersome. “I’m NOT Jack,” the blonde reaffirmed, his hands coiling in to balls on the table, “but I’m enough Jack that I want to see you succeed. It’s misery seeing you unhappy and in pain, Ga—Reaper. Ugh. Shit… What the hell did I do to you?”

“STOP,” Reaper curled his lip. “Just…stop. Christ.”

76 looked absolutely miserable. His halo was withdrawn to a faint glow, flickering and shivering with his mounting anxiety, and Gabriel couldn’t stand it.

“You two are pathetic,” Sombra piped from the corner. “Just kiss and get the hell over it. God. It’s painful to watch this. Los hombres son tan embarazosos.”

Reaper stood and offered a clawed hand. “I won’t kill you if you don’t lie to me anymore,” he offered.

76 stared at the glove before stretching out and taking it with a little nod. “Yeah,” he agreed. “No more lying. I promise.” His halo grew with relief, like the synth’s head were bleeding pure daylight, and the knot in Gabriel’s chest loosened a little.

76 wasn’t Jack, but it was going to be easier to try and get along with him than it would be to simmer in his own rage and hatred every hour of every day. At least this way Gabriel could be near him, as painful as it was. The agony gnawed at his heart when he was close enough to see those stunning cerulean eyes looking up at him, knowing that it wasn’t the eyes he’d thought they were before.

This was going to be absolute suffering. But at least suffering with Jack’s substitute was marginally better than suffering without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that there's an existing Amari in Fallout is the best. They'll move to Goodneighbor later with human!Hancock after the ghouls are thrown out. Angela's sure in for a culture-shock, but she's strong. More on that later and/or in "Coming to Terms".
> 
> Sorry the chapter's a bit tardy and sort of rushed. I had to skip a bit since otherwise that would have been another 1-2 chapters to really fill it up and I wanted to move the main story forward. 
> 
> We have another time skip or two coming up as we close in on the ending to Part 1 :) GETTING CLOSE, KIDDOS.


	17. Fugitives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 76 was more like Jack than he’d wanted to think he was, after all.

Half of year of training Coursers together and a great deal of caution and patience on both sides had managed to mend enough of the damage 76 had dealt to their relationship for he and Gabe to spend some casual time together. It was practically a miracle that Gabe was willing to give him a chance at all, but he’d freaking take it.

They weren’t lovers and probably never would be, but they were becoming friends,  _real_  friends, and 76 was happy with that.

The old saying that time meds all wounds seemed to ring true because by the end of the year, when 76 had gotten brave enough to suggest that they combine their energies and convert an abandoned section of the Institute in to their own living space, Gabriel had agreed. It took a few months of hard work, sleepless nights, and lots of arguing over what tiles to use in the refurbished showers, but they actually did it, managing to clean up half a floor and make it a functioning series of little apartment-like personal quarters. 76 had made certain that the wiring to all of the cameras was non-functional enough that Sombra couldn’t monitor them—not that they were doing anything worth spying on, but the privacy was nice. She was still shadowing Gabe pretty much everywhere, and though she’d occasionally show up to bother them in person, typically to steal food, it was better than wondering if she was watching them take a bath through secret cameras or something equally discomforting. Gabriel had even begun to cook real meals in the kitchenette with some judiciously-usurped pantry items.

Things were almost back to normal; as normal as they could be.

He was now an active Courser, forced to regularly hunt escaped synths, and Moira was still doing her occasional experiments on Gabriel. All that 76 really cared about was that Gabe was willing to spend real time together, but his job was absolutely miserable and had gradually eaten away at any joy that Gabriel brought. Every day was harder and harder on his nerves and conscience. Every synth that he dragged back from the cusp of freedom was a stab to his heart that threatened to kill him but never quite managed to. Seeing Gabriel’s perfect face filled the wounds, healing them on the outside, but 76’s guts were gradually rotting away. It was only a matter of time before he found a way to end it, one way or another.

Between Sombra’s hovering and the nanite-tracking, getting Gabe out of the Institute was proving to be too much of a challenge for even 76’s super-computer brain to solve. Gabriel was effectively stuck there, trapping the blonde with him, but even though opportunities to leave were abundant, 76 couldn’t bring himself to leave Gabe behind to face Moira and the Institute all alone. And so he just dealt with it. He swallowed the anger and the pain and the guilt in a knot of bile, and just dealt with it. He captured synths, filed his paperwork, trained Coursers, and ate dinner with Gabriel, all while doing his best to ignore the remorse digesting his soul.

One of 76’s more boring tasks was babysitting the synths that worked beneath the Institute, ever-expanding its borders and working in the hidden backrooms to keep things functioning. If it wasn’t hour after hour of bland strolling up and down tunnels of rock and dirt that he was certain could collapse on his head at any given moment, there was the cleanup of actual tunnel collapses to deal with. Synths might not be humans and 76 wasn’t bothered by gore, but it still bothered him to clean up the mangled and bloody messes crushed under the rocks when he had to. He’d been instructed to assist rescuing them, when able, but only if it didn’t put himself in any direct danger. Worker synths weren’t as valuable as an ‘enhanced unit’ like himself.

One of the only perks to patrolling the tunnels was that X6-88 was never down there to annoy him; the Courser was exclusively used for training, surveillance, assassination or retention tasks. 76 had actually been forced to work with him multiple times by this point, mostly on high-profile retention jobs, but he still hated the guy.

The blonde was on the final hour of a sixteen-hour shift, glad that he didn’t require much in the way of food, drink or sleep to function, knowing that the other marching Coursers were probably well-exhausted and starving by now. 76 leaned against a stack of aluminum crates to keep out of sight of the other patrolling Coursers and nibbled on a granola bar that he’d stowed away in his jacket.

“You’re crazy. It’s suicide,” he overheard some synths whispering. 76 recognized the voice as belonging to M7-97, one of the worker units. More so than most other synths, M7-97 was quiet and timid. He’d do anything instructed of him without hesitation, but 76 could tell that he was absolutely terrified most of the time. He was a handsome brunette, a couple of inches larger than 76 and well-built for heavy lifting and hard labor, complete with muscles he needed to move machinery and to assist clearing out some of the more challenging tunnelways. M7-97 wasn’t scared of the work, showing no reluctance to do as commanded even when it was treacherous, but his trepidation regarding the Coursers and other staff was practically palpable. The poor guy was a total mess; just another casualty of the Institute’s slave peddling.

“It’s not  _suicide_. We have it all planned out, right, N?” In direct opposition to M7-97, G7-81 was an aggressive and challenging synth to deal with. She was tall, lean, umber-skinned and with short, stark-white hair and a fiery attitude that had nearly gotten her reset more than a handful of times. She called herself ‘Glory,’ and though he regularly had to put her in her place for her spunk, 76 liked her.

“We do.” N2-92, ‘N’, was another rebel, but he was well-behaved and more subversive in his manner and tactics. He knew when to keep his mouth shut and how to behave for his superiors, always putting up a good front. He and 76 got along just fine. He was of average synth height—six foot even, for a male—and was of Japanese ethnicity, made up of all long and lean muscle. 76 wasn’t positive how the poor sap got stuck working in the tunnels; even covered in dirt, N really was too attractive to be doing manual labor, and looked more like the synths working in the hub. “We’ll be meeting here at 2315 tonight and should be at the Railroad rendezvous point after a couple of hours. I’m confident that it will work, but you will need to make a decision by 2300 or we will have to leave you behind. I’d really rather not, though. We’re friends.”

“We shouldn’t be discussing this—or anything at all.” 76 could hear the larger synth gather up his gear to move to another sub-section. “I’m not going to get reset due to your recklessness.”

“Being reset has to be better than living out the rest of your life in this shitty hell-pit, digging three-quarters of the day and night,” Glory scoffed. “Com’on, M. Get out of here with us. This place is the fucking worst.”

“My designation is M7-97.”

“Holy shit, you’re unbelievable today.”

“If he doesn’t want to join us, he doesn’t have to,” N scolded very quietly, hushing her before she got too irritated. Glory wasn’t terribly self-preservative with her knack for loudly advertising their plans or using their self-given names. It was sort of shocking she hadn’t been reset yet. “M7-97’s life is his own to live, and we should respect his personal decisions. But if he changes his mind, he knows where to go.”

“Just leave me alone. I have work to do.” It didn’t surprise 76 at all that M7-97 wasn’t the running type.

“Very well. Good luck, M7-97. Come, Glory. We have some things to finish up before this evening.”

Several minutes later, certain that the group had dispersed, 76 rolled out from where he’d been hiding and dropped his snack wrapper in a nearby trash bin. He’d overheard talk of escape before and always pretended not to hear, only reporting it if another Courser was present and he was forced to. This time would be no different.  A Courser would go after them, either way. But at least this way they’d have a chance.

The blonde rolled his shoulders, wondering if he could ask Gabe for a backrub without risking his arm getting ripped off, and turned the corner, nearly bumping in to M7-97 in the process. The brunette was preoccupied with replacing some damaged support beams. “Oops,” 76 grunted while the synth kept his gaze away, obediently not speaking unless directly addressed. “Sorry about that. Almost ran right in to you.”

He only nodded in response, sticking a nail in his mouth and continuing his work.

“You need any help?”

“No sir. I am operating efficiently enough to complete the task without aid.”

76 rolled his eyes. “The other Coursers are about a quarter mile from here and the cameras aren’t set up yet in this end. They can’t hear us talking, so you can relax. I’m not going to report you.”

M7-97 didn’t verbally reply, just continuing in his work like 76 had been talking to someone else entirely.

“Right,” the blonde frowned at the silent, despondent laborer. As much as he saw it day in and day out, it was still disturbing to see synths act like they had no personality. No hopes or dreams. No individuality. Tom came to the forefront of his mind and 76 swallowed a ball of cotton in the back of his throat.

He still missed Tom, thinking of him regularly and wondering where he’d gone and whether or not he was still alive out there somewhere. There had been no sign of him, though Zimmer had sent some Coursers to look for him, in case Jesse had been lying and 76’s report was based off bad intel. But if Tom was alive, he must have managed to smuggle himself out of the Commonwealth, or those Railroad idiots really did manage to help him, because even X6-88 had returned empty-handed, convinced he was in fact dead.

The thought of Tom being erased and replaced with another personality made 76 sick to his stomach.

“You can’t be happy,” he mused, still half-thinking of his red-head friend.

“Happiness is irrelevant to robots.”

76 frowned at him, increasingly distressed by the synth’s complete lack of self-value. “Right. Keep up the good work, M7-97,” he sighed and began his final march, leaving the worker to his duties.

He’d made up his mind.

He was going to find a way to save M7-97, even if he couldn’t save Gabriel.

 

Gabe was at the helm working on what smelled like spaghetti when 76 stepped off the elevator and in to their personal apartment. It was just past ten and all that he could think about was the synths preparing for their escape in the next hour. Maybe M7-97 would get brave and join them, but he seriously doubted it.

“Smells good,” 76 commented and stretched before removing his jacket, draping it off the back of his refurnished, navy blue chair.

His roommate was dressed down to some black sweats, always ready to climb out of his uncomfortable getup. “It had better smell good. I’m cooking it.”

“Where’s your teenage babysitter?” he smirked and leaned to glance around Gabriel at the pot of sauce, promptly earning an elbow to his face.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Gabriel snorted and shoved him. “Come near my food again and I’ll grind your bones in to seasoning, synth.”

76 chuckled and grabbed some plates. “Have an okay day?”

“It was brutally boring and tedious and long as hell. So…average. Yours?”

“Same,” he sighed and set the table before sitting.

“You look more tired than usual.”

“This place is just…getting to me,” 76 admitted. “All of the hunting synths and having to keep them in-check is gradually eating away at my sanity. I don’t know how much more of it I can take.”

“You know, for a guy modeled after Jack, you’re awfully soft.”

“Ouch,” 76 put a hand over his heart. “Right to the jugular tonight.”

“Oh, relax. I’m just fucking with you. Christ. I didn’t realize that I was living with a god damn flower.”

“You like that I’m a flower.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes and slapped the blonde upside the head. “Strain the noodles and serve yourself, princess.”

“Okay, okay,” 76 fake-pouted while rubbing his head. He hopped up to do as instructed, filling his plate with fresh noodles and sauce before sitting down, Gabriel joining him shortly with some bread.

The pair ate quietly, parting ways not long later when Gabriel decided he needed to work on some paperwork and left 76 to finish his dinner alone. Not an uncommon evening, between them. The two rarely spent more than an hour of time together that wasn’t working or talking about working. Gabriel had become distant since his death, back to focusing his energy on the details of his job, but 76 couldn’t blame him. They were casual friends now, which he was deeply grateful for, but the wraith hadn’t completely forgiven him for everything and 76 knew that he pained Gabe some days just to be around.

76 was still little more than a reminder of what Gabriel had lost; salt on old but still-festering wounds.

Maybe Gabriel would be better off with him gone altogether.

76 forced the unsettling thoughts from his mind and cleaned the kitchen, making sure to put everything back in their rightful place to keep his roommate from strangling him to death. After he’d slipped the leftovers into their modest but functional refrigerator, the blonde grabbed his coat and headed towards the elevator, convinced that Gabriel wouldn’t even notice that he was missing.

His plan was to head towards the tunnels where he knew N2-92 and G7-81—N and Glory—were meeting up, likely with a few other synths looking to make a run for it. If M7-97 wasn’t there, he’d need a little push, and 76 was prepared to literally shove him if he freaking had to. Once the other synths were out, 76 would take the brunette down another path in the water cooling system, allowing the group to be a distraction. He couldn’t risk trying to get all of them out, but no one was going to notice a single unassuming synth like M7-97 missing in the chaos, at least not for several hours. If the group triggered an alarm, 76 would wait for the Coursers to figure out who was missing before he’d make his move, which would give them some cover. He wasn’t due to report in until eight the next morning, so he had a bit of a buffer, but he’d need to move quickly.

One of the very few benefits to knowing Sombra was access to her unique skills. The teenager had a sweet tooth and craved foods the Institute didn’t carry, and had enlisted 76 in to sneaking her items when he was on above-ground missions. Sensing that he could abuse her skills to his own advantage, he’d told her that he couldn’t go ‘off track’ to get her what she requested, and so she’d somehow enabled him to turn the internal tracker off of his Courser Chip. This meant that 76 could grab her snacks without getting caught for going places not strictly cleared to go, but doubled as a method of going off-radar for his own personal side-quests, allowing him to teleport around the Commonwealth without detection. And so long as 76 kept providing her with an endless supply of bubble gum and Dandy Boy Apples, Sombra made sure that he kept the ability to ghost and didn’t report the modification.

The main problem with this arrangement was that, should he run for good, Zimmer would deactivate his chip from a distance, rendering it useless, but 76 hadn’t yet found a method to approach her about this problem yet. Sombra had no reason to cooperate beyond something that didn’t directly benefit her, and she was definitely the sort to blackmail, so he needed to be cautious about what he said around and asked of the young and selfish hacker.

For the moment, he could at least abuse the ability to help a synth or two. Maybe it would clear up some of the rot from 76’s deteriorating integrity.

 

The ever-dutiful M7-97 was still working when 76 reached the back-end of the tunnel system, preoccupying himself with organizing some spare parts at a table and separating them out for cleaning or replacement. God damn was it disheartening to see someone so dedicated to such menial labor. The synth was discreet and unassuming, and 76 had never really paid him much mind, which was probably the whole point. M7-97 was good at being exactly what the Institute wanted him to be: a hard-working, well-behaved robot that stayed out of sight and out of mind. But he had to want more than this.

M7-97 wasn’t happy, that much 76 was certain of, but he wasn’t sure if he could convince him to run if his own peers couldn’t, but he was going to give it a shot.

“Well, you’re working awfully late this evening. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

M7-97 didn’t look up from his work, continuing to pick at one of the loose gears on a part for one of the machines, hands covered in grime and grease. “I only require a few hours of sleep to be well-rested, but I shall retire for the evening shortly.”

76 leaned his hip against the steel table, crossing his hands in front of him as he watched the synth clean off the mystery part and carefully place it in a worn-out cardboard box. “So…do you mind telling me why you’re not going to meet up with your friends this evening?”

M7-97 grabbed another part, not taking the bait. “Sir?”

He leaned down to speak quietly, not stupid enough to be loud about the conversation even though 76 knew there were no functioning microphones or cameras close enough to pick up their conversation. “I know that N2-92 and G7-81 were trying to convince you to run with them tonight,” he whispered. The brunette’s shoulders markedly tensed. 76 glanced at his watch and hummed again. “You were supposed to meet them ten minutes ago but obviously never showed up, so they’re well on their way out by now. Why didn’t you go? Too enthralled by organizing the Institute’s trash?”

M7-97 kept his brown eyes on the piece in his dirty hands, remaining quiet for a drawn-out moment. “Pardon me, sir, but I’m…not certain what you’re referring to.”

“You can relax. I’m not here to report you or to turn in your friends. I’m trying to help you.”

“Excuse me, but I should prepare to retire for the night.” M7-97 stood and turned to leave but 76 moved around him, getting in the taller synth’s face as best as he could manage. The brunette’s dark brown eyes showed hesitation and a burst of fear pooled until he complied and went stiff. “Do you require something, sir?”

“I’m getting you out of here.”

M7-97 frowned and flicked his eyes around nervously. “I… I should go to my quarters. This unit is exhausted and requires rest for its duties at 0600.”

“Oh, cut the crap. You and I both know that you’re not a robot.”

“I am a synthetic human, unit M7-97, designated for manual labor.”

76 groaned and ran his gloves over his eyes. “Shit, you’re worse than Tom… Okay, listen, I’m trying to help you, all right? This isn’t a trick. I overheard your conversation earlier today with the other two. I know that you’re scared—really, I get it. But I’m a Courser. I literally wrote the new SRB manual. I know how to get you out of the Institute and how keep you under the radar, and I know who to get you to and the fastest, most efficient way to do it. If you truly want to spend the rest of your immortal life down here plowing tunnels and organizing scrap, fine. I’ll walk away and we’ll pretend that this never happened. But if you ever even remotely considered the idea of getting the hell out of this place, now’s the time to do it.”

M7-97 shifted anxiously but finally looked at him. The glance lasted only a moment before those terrified brown eyes dropped back towards the dirt, too socially awkward to hold the gaze for long. “Are you…serious?”

76 reached in to his back pocket and grabbed a sheet of paper, grabbing the synth’s hand and slapping it in into his calloused palm. “This is my recall code. I can’t think of a way to illustrate how fucking serious I am than giving you this. Now what do you say, M7? You ready to break out of here, or do you want to go to your shitty little room to sleep for four restless hours, and then come right back here? You’re not going to get a better chance than this.”

The brunette stared down at the paper for a long moment before offering the smallest nod imaginable, but 76 would take it.

“Good. I’ll need you to be as quiet as possible, keep close, and do everything that I say. Can you do that?” Another meek nod. 76 moved towards a locker and grabbed some of the casual clothing he kept just in case he needed a spare and tossed it to the noticeably-horrified M7-97. “Here—change in to this. It might be a bit short on you, but it’s better than nothing.”

The synth complied and 76 stuffed the dirty white jumper back in the locker. Just as he figured, the jeans were a couple inches short on the brunette and the black shirt was a bit snug but it would have to do.

76 tied a plaid shirt around M7-97’s waist to hide the rising shirt. “Not exactly perfect but it’ll be good enough. I’d ask if you had anything personal to take, but not only do I heavily doubt it, we don’t really have any time to grab it.”

“This unit does not have anything designated as personal.”

76 pulled out the laser pistol strapped to his thigh. “Do you know how to shoot?”

“No sir.”

Well, shit. That was predictable. “Great. Take this, anyways,” 76 showed him how to turn the safety off and aim before handing it to him.

“Yes sir,” M7-97 nodded compliantly and stuffed the gun in to the back of his jeans after turning the safety back on. At least he was good at following orders.

“Let’s just get moving,” the blonde sighed and motioned for him to follow.

M7-97 nodded once again and kept close, keeping his brown eyes on the Courser for orders, completely entrusting him with his life.

76 couldn’t help but think that his new friend would probably do well in the military.

 

M7-97 turned out to be an abysmal shot and an even worse swimmer. 76 really should have expected no less from a guy that had spent the entirety of his short life doing nothing but dig tunnels all hours of the day, but god damn if it wasn’t just a little bit exasperating.

It was nearing dawn by the time 76 pulled the synth from the waters just south of Ticonderoga, and, assuming they’d manage to safely maneuver the landscape, they still had a good hour walk ahead of them. “You all right?” They were both cold and soaked, but 76 always keep some RadAway and Rad-X on his person so they’d managed to make it through the sewers without heavy radiation poisoning. He had a much higher tolerance than even most Coursers, so he offered M7-97 the final two pills of Rad-X to get him through the worst of the shakes and nausea.

The brunette swallowed the pills dry, still shivering. “It’s c-cold…” It was spring and the Commonwealth was at least warm during the day by now, but the early mornings were still frosty and today was no different. Though M7-97 was just a worker, the Institute made an effort to keep all of their areas as dry and comfortable as possible, mostly because it fostered work ethic and increased positivity amongst the staff, synths included. Synths were property but they were at least provided for, to some degree.

“Welcome to the surface,” 76 smirked and M7-97 offered the faintest smile back. “Come on. Bunker Hill is a good hour or so away and I’d like to try and get there before daybreak. I need to be back in a few hours but I’m going to make sure that you’re safe before I leave you, all right?” Another little nod. 76 nodded back and began to slink up the side of the river. They would have to pass through Gunner territory and various raider gangs before reaching the safety of the trading post, but 76 was resolute to see this through—for his guilt’s sake.

Luckily for them both, Jack provided the experience to know exactly what routes to take to avoid any direct conflict. A few ghouls here and there, quietly dealt with by a silenced pistol, was all that they’d had the displeasure of dealing with on the graciously-dull trip. He’d been admittedly concerned that his companion might be overly-distracted or even risked total meltdown due to freaking the hell out about the dramatic change of environment, but, though M7-97 always seemed to be on the cusp of having a panic attack, the synth kept his cool and followed orders, sticking close to his guide and only using the pistol when being attacked from behind by a charging ghoul. He’d missed, of course, but had proven he had a hard left hook, easily dealing with the ghoul by brute force. Jack’s instincts told him that the slave would make a good soldier if he got some training, though his shooting skills were poor enough that 76 had exchanged the pistol for a mahogany baseball bat that had been sticking out of a pile of garbage. Things had gone smoothly after that.

It was nearly daybreak when they approached the white stone obelisk marking Bunker Hill amongst the wreckage, the monument’s internal framework exposed with patches of holes in the side from two centuries of gunfire and explosions. Lights shone against the damaged tower, making its pitted surface glow like a lighthouse in the middle of the rubble around it and guiding the pair towards its gate.

76 could sense the synth’s apprehension spike as they made their approach, uneased by the woman standing guard in front of an ancient metal sculpture of some guy in a tricorn hat. She was young and armed with a .45 standard combat rifle, wearing mismatched leather and combat armor over some casual clothing.

“Whoa there, shitheads,” the guard cautioned, weapon drawn and raised. “What business do you have here? I don’t recognize the either of you.”

76 raised his hands, palms up, and M7-97 followed suit. “We’re not here to cause any trouble. My friend here needs a safe place to rest and I need to re-supply before heading back out. We heard that Bunker Hill was the place to do it, so here we are. I guess if you don’t want our caps that we can just go elsewhere, though. Your call.”

The woman squinted and made an irritated noise before motioning with her gun towards the gated entrance. “Go on in. But cause any trouble and I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

76 nodded, keeping his body language passive, and headed up the uneven stairs to lead the uneasy slave in to the trading post.

Bunker Hill was fortified by a wall of sturdy steel and wood frames, not too unlike what they’d had at Blackwatch, though a few more turrets and guards would be preferable. Stores and shacks lined the barrier, looking solid enough that 76 wasn’t too concerned that they’d fall apart if he entered them. The center of the settlement was a concrete building behind the obelisk, where traders were chatting with customers and caravan guards from behind counters. It looked pretty organized, all things considered, and 76 would be lying if he’d said that he wasn’t just a little impressed by how clean it was. But he wasn’t here to shop; he was here to make a delivery, and he wasn’t entirely certain how to go about this part of the plan.

Railroad agents were notoriously judicious. 76 was a Courser that had hunted and killed them in the past, not something that he was proud of but it had served to educate him well enough on their techniques to know that just asking someone wasn’t going to oust them if they were an agent. He knew that there were definitely Railroad agents on the premises, but finding them was the tricky part. He was honestly hoping that M7-97’s obvious “I AM TERRIFIED AND OUT OF PLACE” expression would naturally lure an agent’s approach. Until then, he needed to keep M7-97 relaxed and not draw unwanted attention from any synth spies that could very easily ruin the whole thing. 76 would kill them if it came to that, but he preferred to keep things on the down-low. Any fuck-ups and he’d put himself at danger, too, but that was a risk he was willing to take.

“Well, good morning. Never seen you two before,” a shopkeeper winked at them when they wandered a bit too close. She was an elderly woman but looked healthy enough that he suspected she probably rarely left the area. “You boys are in awfully early. Looking for anything in particular?”

76 smirked and turned on his charm. “I might be. My friend here is just looking for a place to stay for the night. I haven’t decided yet if I want to purchase anything.”

“Savoldi’s got board and food out back,” she thumbed towards one of the exits. “He can be a bit crass but he’s still young, so show the guy a little patience. I sell ammunition and weapons, if you need to stock up. Ain’t no reason to wander out there without a stash of ammo, my friend. There are plenty’f raiders and mutants and all sorts of crap that’s lookin’ to kill yuh. Not that I have to tell you two that. I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share out there.”

The blonde hummed thoughtfully. “Do you have any plasma cartridges?”

“I have about fifteen left. A caravan came through last night and snatched up most of my supply.”

“Gunner guards, eh?” he guessed.

“How’d you know?”

“Let’s just say that I’ve got some personal experience.” 76 offered a playful smile that earned another cackle from the woman while M7-97 awkwardly watched the exchange.

“Oh my goodness, you’re quite a charmer, aren’t you? Well, I’ll tell you what, Deb’ll kill me but you’ve got a mighty-cute face. I’ll sell you my remaining rounds for a hundred caps.”

76 leaned in and lowered his eyelids enough to make the woman blush. “Make it eighty and you’ve got a deal.”

“You are a piece of work!” she laughed and slapped the counter. “All right. Eighty it is.”

“Mom, are you flirting with the customers again?” A young woman with short black hair approached the counter from the side. She was wearing a blue mechanic jumpsuit with red lapels, and she sized both the men up with a pair of intense amber eyes that told 76 she’d already decided that he was trouble.

He leaned off the counter and grabbed his caps from his backpack to pay the still grinning mother, who slid him a box of plasma cartridges. 76 counted them and stuffed the box into his things.

“Oh, let an old woman have fun, Deb. I was only making a deal with this nice young man and his boyfriend.”

76 snorted and flashed a smile when the synth turned red in the face. “No, no,” he waved a hand. “He’s just a friend. My boyfriend’s back home,” it was a lie that cut through him but felt natural enough that he knew it would fool them. “We live around the C.I.T. ruins, in an old apartment that we refurnished. He’s a bit of a grouch but I love him all the same. It’s probably the cooking; I swear that he can make even boatfly edible.”

“See, Debbie?” the woman laughed and swept a hand at the smiling Courser. “Nothing to worry about. I didn’t even stand a chance. Your boyfriend sounds lovely, uh…what’s your name?”

“Jack.”

Deb rolled her eyes but seemed to relax at the banter before she eyed up M7-97. “So what’s your name?”

The synth blinked the fog from his eyes. “Huh?”

“Your name,” Deb arched an eyebrow. “What is it?”

M7-97 just dumbly stared at her, locked in mental concrete while he attempted to process the question. “Uh…”

Shit. It somehow hadn’t occurred to 76 that someone would ask for the synth’s name.

 “Danse,” the Courser answered for him and put an arm around the taller synth’s back to give him a hearty pat meant to loosen the terrified man up. It didn’t work. ‘Danse’ had been a quiet-natured soldier that had died from side-effects of the serum in SEP. 76 didn’t know for sure why the man had come to the forefront of his mind when trying to come up with a name, any name, to offer. “His name is Danse. The guy comes from a farm and isn’t used to big places like this, so forgive his shyness.”

“I see,” the graying woman smiled gently in attempt to get M7-97 to look at her. “Nice to meet you, Danse.”

“Yes.” Though he didn’t show it much, the forced social situation had M7-97 beginning to panic. 76 needed to get him out of there before he unintentionally made them both look suspicious as hell.

“Hey, you hungry, pal?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s grab a bite and get you in bed, all right? Thanks for the ammo, ladies,” 76 smiled and winked before turning the brunette around to lead him towards the exit they’d previously been pointed to.

“Come back soon!” the merchant waved, her daughter squinting at their backs.

“You’re not terribly good at this, are you, son?”

76 glanced over his shoulder to see a middle-aged man monitoring them from behind a counter. He looked out of place, dressed in a clean black suit and tie with a formal-looking hat. “Pardon me?”

“The name’s Stockton.” The stranger offered M7-97 a comforting smile before he pushed off the counter to head around the back, through a different exit. “Come with me. I think I have a job offer for you boys.”

76 would have to trust his instincts. He nodded at his brunette charge and followed, hand ready to snatch the cutlass from his belt and slice the man’s throat if it turned out to be a trap.

They were directed to one of the shacks against the wall, where another man dressed in a dirty plaid shirt and torn blue-jeans was organizing various junk behind a counter. “I believe that I have encountered some new friends,” the well-dressed stranger kept his voice low but tone casual. “At least one of them carries some gear that you might find of interest. Might make for a good worker, too, assuming he’s interested.”

“Thanks,” the other man offered a peace-sign over his shoulder, though he didn’t look up from the box he was rummaging through. “We still good for lunch at one?”

“Certainly. I’ll see you then.”

“See you around, Stocky.”

Stockton tipped his hat at the duo before vanishing around the corner, leaving them with this other man whom 76 instantly distrusted. There was something about his body language and general appearance that was just…off.

The stranger cursed and stood, wiping his hands off with a rag that looked grungy enough to not do any good in the cleaning department. He was pale-skinned and had shaggy black hair pulled in to a messy bun, and had a shit-eating grin that made 76 want to crack his jaw open. His eyes were veiled by a pair of black sunglasses, masking the important half of his expression and setting the blonde on edge. “As fun as sorting through garbage is, let’s grab a snack, eh? I got some Fancy Lads I bet you’ll like.”

All synths enjoyed sweets, having a strange preference for the snack cakes. This was a fact 76 had learned on his own but was later confirmed by Dr. Ziegler. The scientists still had no idea where it came from. As far as he was aware, the Commonwealth’s population was unaware of this minor but revealing detail.

“Sure,” 76 managed a smile through his immense irritation when the man shot them finger guns. God damn it.

They were led into a small back room where a dirty mattress and straw pillow were set up. The stranger grabbed some Fancy Lads from a stash on a shelf and offered them over. “So, what’s your name, my blonde friend?”

M7-97 cautiously accepted the gift, turning it in his hands while 76 opened the white box to pop one of the cakes in to his mouth.

“Jack,” 76 replied after a dry swallow and thumbed at M7-97. “That’s Danse. Now, do you mind telling me what the hell is this about? You looking to hire a gun or something?”

“Oh, wow. You’re sort of adorable,” he smirked. “SS-76, right?”

76 didn’t betray his alarm but put his half-empty box in to a pocket to finish later. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“You supposedly died back at Sunshine Tidings. Vanished but reappeared a couple years ago, still sunny and handsome and dangerous as hell. Second time you vanished and popped up like that. Pretty strange for a normal guy to just magically survive what you did in the Capital, and all with just a scar or two to show for it? Pretty damn impressive.”

The Courser scowled hard at him, trying but failing to get a good read on the guy through his aviators. “How the hell do you know any of that?”

“It’s really not so hard to piece together all the bits, my friend. Your ability to cover your tracks is poorly lacking in the subtlety department,” he laughed, keeping the sound low. “Especially with that jacket. Christ. Probably could have at least changed your clothes in to something less conspicuous to make your little delivery. I know that you’ve been stalking a few of our agents and kidnapping relocated…friends. You’re usually with the darker-skinned guy in the standard black get-up, though why you have that brightly-colored ‘ _here I am, come shoot me_ ’ costumed monstrosity, I have no freaking idea. I’ve been monitoring you for some time. You’re a tricky little bastard when you know you’re being followed,” he bobbed a finger and smiled broad and snarky, and the urge to punch him bubbled back up again 76’s stomach. “But I should be the one asking you what this is all about. You’re suddenly on the good side now, helping synths instead of hunting them down like animals? What exactly changed?”

“That’s really none of your business.” It was apparent that pretending he was anything but a synth was going to be futile at this point. Somehow, this man knew enough about 76 to have even tracked down his designation, which was deeply unsettling.

“On the contrary, this is literally my _entire_ business, my friend.” The stranger just kept on smiling, sweeping his hand and motioning to emphasize his words. “It’s my job to decide whether or not you’re trustworthy, or if I should just put a bullet in that handsome noggin’ of yours. The Institute sure knows how to pump out the supermodels, Jesus. First time I saw you, I thought you were made to lure agents in and knife them in their beds or something. Color me surprised when you show up to just perfectly blow heads off through cap-sized cracks in windows, instead. I really should’ve known better than to judge the main character of a romance novel by his pretty-faced cover, but hey, we all need regular reminders not to make assumptions.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” 76 snapped. “I need to know that I can trust you before I give you any information that will put myself or my companion at risk. You obviously know quite a bit about me already, so how about you offer me something about yourself, in return?”

“All right, okay. Fair’s fair. You make a valid point, compadre. Name’s Johnny D, but most guys and gals and sentient robots call me Deacon. Tell anyone my real name and I’ll spread rumors that you wear cowboy-themed lingerie or something. Also by most people I mostly mean you two dweebs and the old man. I’m field-testing my new alias. You like? Be serious.”

76 rolled his eyes. “Sure. Whatever. Okay,  _Deacon_ , listen up, I’m dropping my friend off here with you and entrusting you with getting him the help he needs. His designation is M7-97, and if anything happens to him, know that I will personally hunt you down and feed you to the literal ghost that I keep in my kitchen.”

“Man, you’re a hoot. I can’t honestly tell if you’re fucking with me or not,” Deacon smirked and waggled two finger-guns at him. “But hey, ghost or not, I give you my word that your friend here will get the help he needs to start a new life. Girl-scout’s honor.”

76 rolled his eyes. “God, you’re insufferable…”

“I think  _adorable_  is the word you were looking for there, boss, but I digress.” Deacon turned his attention on the quiet and nervous slave, his body language relaxing and voice lowering. “So, what’s your name? Do you have something you prefer? Or have you not worked that out yet?”

“It was sort of a surprise, getting him out today,” 76 explained when the synth only nervously shifted his weight. “I hadn’t been really planning on it but the moment struck me, I guess. I’m honestly getting weary of all the hunting. I needed to do something positive for a change, so…here we are.”

“You’re pretty friendly for a guy that I’ve seen gun down about ten of my coworkers in cold blood,” Deacon noted and lit a cigarette. M7-97’s face scrunched but he didn’t complain. “I guess you’re one’f the more social Coursers? They aren’t generally Motzarts at conversation. Lots of _ME ROBOT HERE TO KILL YOU, BEEP-BOOP_ shenanigans. But you,” he motioned at the blonde with the cigarette and released a small stream of smoke, still smirking, “you’re different. Aren’t you?”

“I was based on Jack Morrison.”

“You mean you _replaced_ him,” John clarified.

“Yes,” 76 admitted. “I replaced him. I had to be good at blending in. I didn’t do Courser work until my work up top was finished.”

John hummed thoughtfully and 76 wondered why the hell he’d told him anything at all. 76 was wary with discussing about anything in the open. Even in a back room of a shack where people couldn’t easily overhear their conversation, there was always the chance that this asshole could be recording them or something, or even be a synth in disguise. But there was something about this Deacon guy that broke down the walls of 76’s vigilance and made it easy to be honest with him. “Well, regardless, if you’re serious about looking to turn over a new leaf, Stockton could be on to something. I think you could make a good addition to our eccentric little family of do-gooder outlaws. I mean, so long as you don’t stab us in the back. That would really make things uncomfortable for me around the company water cooler.”

76 snorted a bit louder than he’d intended. “You’re seriously asking me to be a Railroad agent?”

“I might be.”

“Thanks but no thanks. I think I’ve done enough spying for two lives.”

“Sure, sure.” Deacon made a one-shoulder shrug and took a long drag of his cigarette. “But the offer stands, if you ever change your mind. Coursers-turned-agents are hella-rare, but they aren’t unheard of, and I can always use another gun in the field to replace one that you, you know, _murdered_ or whatever. Though I think you might be good enough with that big rifle of yours to replace more than just one body-bag you’ve left me to clean up.”

“No. This is a one-time thing. Spur of the moment.”

Deacon just smiled again. “Of course. Well—M7-97, right?” The synth nodded. “I guess you and I are gonna be best buds. Gonna have a kickass sleepover and everything. I’ll get you to the agency by this time tomorrow. But we’ll get you fed and all that good shit prior. Get you all rested and stuff. Cool?”

“Yes…  _Cool_ …” M7-97 obviously had no freaking idea what the expression meant. “Danse.”

“Eh?”

“My name is Danse… You asked…”

“That’s just something I came up with to cover for you,” 76 frowned at him. “You don’t need to feel pressured to use it. This is your life, M7. Don’t let anyone else decide what you do with it.”

“I like it.”

“Danse it is!” John beamed and offered a campy thumbs-up. “Sort of a weird name, but hey, it suits you.” He flicked his cigarette filter into a trash bin and saluted 76, keeping every word and motion as sarcastic and patronizing as possible. He was a total tool, but 76 couldn’t argue that he was at least a kind-hearted tool. Railroad agents didn’t typically have long lifespans. They knew exactly what they were getting in to, but they still threw themselves in to the fray, dedicating their lives to protecting and rescuing synths when most humans either attempted to enslave or murder them. “See you around, Jackie. Let’s hope our next encounter’s positive like this and I don’t have to put a bullet between those blue pearls of yours, eh?”

“I doubt that you could if you tried,” 76 smiled.

“It’s cute that you think you can intimidate me, but I ain’t gonna be scared off by an underwear model carrying a rifle, even if he was a Gunner and is famous for having a perfect shot.”

The blonde took one step closer, leaning over the shorter man. “Let me be perfectly clear: if I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

“Hey—no reason to get in to my personal space, my friend. You’ve got a bigger dick, I get it.”

76 turned to offer a hand to M7-97, who didn’t seem to exactly know what to do with it, so he took his hand and shook it. “Stay safe, all right? Maybe someday we’ll cross paths again. You can buy me dinner or something for sticking my neck out for you,” he smirked.

The brunette grinned shyly and nodded. “Thank you… I’m…very grateful.”

“Bye, Danse.” 76 glanced at Deacon one last time, his blue gaze lingering in warning on the smiling Railroad agent, before the Courser turned and made his exit.

Some of the rot in 76’s belly evaporated, relieving some of the weight from his shoulders and making the return home that much easier.

He could get used to it.

 

Three weeks came and went, and 76 was assigned another retention task, which he was deeply loathing. N and Glory’s group of escapees had mostly managed to escape; there’d been ten of them in total, and though three had been re-captured, there was no sign of the pair. M7-97 was also still MIA, and no one suspected 76’s involvement. Things had gone as well as they could have, but it grew to bother him that he’d likely never find out what happened to the quiet miner.

M7-97, Danse, was gone. If he’d accepted the memory wipe, he’d have gotten relocated by now. 76 would probably never see him again, and though they hadn’t been friends or really even communicated much before or during the escape, the Courser found himself thinking of him often; thinking about how each and every man and woman that the Institute printed were legitimate people, and how poorly they were treated. The prospect of having to stalk and kill or retain one to throw them back into a cage was too much to bear. He’d reached the end of his rope. 76 couldn’t deal with it anymore.

He had to get out or he was going to fall apart.

“We need to go.”

“Go where?” Gabriel grumbled half-mindedly, preoccupied with reviewing some field reports while sipping coffee. It was late again and 76’s day had been total garbage, climaxing the shit-storm when he’d gotten his assignment.

76 leaned over him, placing a palm on the wood table as he was ignored. “I’m leaving the Institute. Are you going to come with me?”

The wraith glanced from his paperwork and arched a scarred brow. “Leaving? Right.”

“I am. I’m getting the fuck out of here, Gabe. I can’t take this job anymore. It’s eating me up inside. I’m not going to kidnap any more people or assassinate anyone or capture synths that deserve the right to their own damn free will. I can’t. I won’t. I’m pulling a Ziegler and jumping ship. Are you with me?”

Gabriel went quiet for a long moment, staring up at the blonde with his white, undead eyes. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. I’m going to crumble, Gabe. I can’t stay here anymore. I NEED you to come with me. I need you to say you’re DONE with this Institute bullshit and come with me.”

“I can’t just leave,” Gabe snarled. “Sombra would fucking KILL me—literally. And need I remind you that Moira can just track me down? I’m a fucking BEACON, 76. I leave, I die. The end.”

76 groaned loudly and rubbed his face with his hands, his red gloves stuffed into his back pocket. “Gabe… Come on… We’ll figure it out as we go… Okay?”

“No. No, it’s NOT okay. Fucking Christ, Morrison. I’m not going to risk my life just because you’re a damn pussy. Your job’s not that terrible. They’re just a bunch of tin-cans. Who the hell cares?”

76 dropped his hands to growl but Gabriel didn’t even respond, expression hardened. “Leave with me.”

“I CAN’T.”

“I’ll kill Sombra once we’re out.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“She’s too fast. She’ll drop me before you can drop her.”

“Bullshit!”

“I SAID. NO. DROP IT. I’m not going anywhere. It’s too risky.”

76 snorted and stormed in a single circle around the kitchen, Gabriel watching him. “You’d rather just live the rest of your life working for these assholes?”

“I’d say it’s no worse than working for the Gunners, so yeah.”

“You can’t be serious! This is a MILLION times worse!”

“I can’t go up there, 76. Even if my some miracle we off’d Sombra, I’m a fucking _monstrosity_. I’d be hunted down and mobbed or some shit. No way can I just live upstairs and people be fine with my grey ass.”

“We can tell them you’re a ghoul.”

“Great. People fucking _love_ ghouls.”

“We’ll move to Diamond City. Ziegler’s there. Maybe she can help you.”

“STOP,” Gabriel boomed, his eyes shining red to emphasize his mounting irritation with the conversation. “Just…stop. I’m not leaving.”

76 frowned, the realization dawning. “Well…I am.”

“What?”

“I’m getting out.”

“NO. You’re not.”

“Yes. I am. I’m sorry, Gabe.”

Gabriel slowly stood, paperwork forgotten. “You are NOT leaving me a SECOND fucking time, Morrison. You’re NOT.”

“I thought you said that I wasn’t Jack. I’m just a tin-can, right?” 76 spat venomously. He almost immediately regretted it, but it seemed to unsettle the now distressed Gabriel, who took a step backwards, fangs bore.

“You can’t leave! You fucking CAN’T!”

“Well, I am.”

“I’ll fucking REPORT you!”

“Go on ahead. I’ll be out of here before you can.”

The wraith took two threatening steps forward, looming over 76 with his winding shadow while his shoulders smoldered with smoke. “I need you to SERIOUSLY consider what you’re threatening to do, Morrison. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I fucking let you back in to my life. After all the shit that you put me through, after all of the lies and the manipulation and costing me literally EVERYTHING, I let you back in. If you leave, I’ll never forgive you. NEVER. And I’ll fucking spend the rest of my shitty, undead life hunting your pale ass down. I’ll find you and make you WISH that you’d left me as gore in the snow, because you’d SUFFER.”

76 stared at him, knowing that everything Gabriel said he was completely serious about. Behind the rage in the beast’s eyes was pain and terror; anguish; desperation. And though 76 loved Gabriel and wanted more than anything to be with him, he also knew that if he stayed that the walls between him and Jack would come tumbling down, and he’d become nothing more than a sociopath on the Institute’s paycheck.

He couldn’t stay—just like Jack couldn’t stay.

76 was more like Jack than he’d wanted to think he was, after all.

“I’m sorry, Gabe... I’m sorry… I can’t stay. Not even for you.”

Gabriel snarled with an equal mix of rage and shock as the synth grabbed his pulse rifle from where it was leaning against the wall. “MORRISON!” he boomed, his visage bursting with angry smoke at the seams. “DON’T YOU FUCKING WALK AWAY FROM ME AGAIN! I MEAN IT! MORRISON!”

76 didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Because if he looked even once and saw Gabriel’s face, he’d lose all willpower to press forward.

Snow dusted the synth’s shattering heart, filling the new fissures and freezing to keep it from completely falling apart. He snapped his mask on and the thunderous clap sounded one final time, teleporting 76 out of the Institute and away from Gabriel Reyes’ walking shadow.

For good this time.

 

**END: PART 1**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are—finally at the ending of Part 1!  
> Sorry for the wait. A lot happened here and I’ve been busy getting ready for a con. I actually wanted to add a bit more, but this chapter would have been IMMENSE, so I'll just have to fill it in later.  
> Sorry if this section feels rushed compared to the Gunner portion.
> 
> Part 2 bounds forward 14 years to 2287, and should be the final major time skip.
> 
> I may put SiOW on hiatus so I can start posting “When Coyotes Meet Dragons”, which explores Nate, Danse, Hanzo and Jesse’s POVs, and getting them to where Part 2 begins. (Nate gets POV in all of the fics, though.)  
> Once they’re up-to-date, I’d post as chapters temporally fall in place so that both stories would get intermittent updates alongside one another. The main story is this one, but WCMD fills in some spots.
> 
> If you’d prefer that I finished this story completely and THEN start the next, rather post them side-by-side, please let me know in the comments, as I’m still undecided :T… 
> 
> Regardless, I’ll be at Anime Weekend Atlanta (AWA) this weekend, so I probably won’t post anything for 1-2 weeks from now, depending on what I decide to do from here.


	18. PART 2 - 2287

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 14 years after 76 abandoned him, Reaper gets an opportunity to prove himself when an Institute agent is unexpectedly killed.

Fourteen long years drudged by and he still couldn’t believe that Jack had walked out on him a second time. At first it had been nothing but an absolute, emptying agony that had threatened to drain Reaper of every last human sentiment lingering in his bones, but the pain had evolved in to a pure, black, violent fury that drove his every step.

SS-76 was going to die, at HIS hands, but Reaper had to earn his way out of the Institute first.

He made an effort to gain the trust of every scientist in the facility, behaving like a good little monster and letting them think that they had him on a chain. Reaper needed to work his way to the top and gain Father’s approval before he’d get the chance to return to the surface as a Courser, but he was making headway.

The fact that 76 had managed to evade capture didn’t particularly surprise him, but it had continued to infuriate Dr. Zimmer for the remainder of the scientist’s time there. Zimmer and Moira’s pet project, a prototype Courser unit called ‘A3-21’ that was the result of their combined efforts to create the perfect Courser, had been sent to apprehend 76 as his first field test. But A3-21 returned empty-handed, claiming that 76 had escaped him after a brief struggle. This struck Reaper as a complete fucking lie, particularly since the unit was a literal hybrid between Gabriel and Jack’s enriched genes and was further enhanced by Moira’s genetic tinkering, like some sort of monstrosity robot love-child that they’d never fucking asked for.

A3-21 had brassy skin, hazel-blue eyes, brown-black hair and Jack’s petite waistline. As disgusting as his existence was, A3-21 was an undeniably remarkable unit, capable of knocking Reaper flat on his ass, which he’d done more than once before Father approved the Courser’s first mission above ground. If A3-21 was that fucking strong, it seemed unlikely that 76 could have straight-up man-handled the guy, though the blonde was swift enough that he _might_ have been able to outmaneuver him. Still, Reaper had his doubts about the unit’s excuses—doubts that had certainly been reaffirmed when the synth ran while on a job less than a month later. Reaper was confident in assuming that 76 somehow manipulated or influenced the abomination, but all he cared about was that A3-21 was gone. There was no room for that atrocity to exist in Reaper’s already overcomplicated life.

Zimmer took Armitage, his personal Courser pet/bodyguard, and went after A3-21 himself, determined not to let such an advanced prototype escape. Reaper would have been impressed by the scientist’s gall if he didn’t absolutely loathe the guy and hope that he died miserably. But, to his credit, Zimmer was still alive, even after all this time.

More than ten years later and Zimmer still regularly reported from the Capital Wasteland, where he’d managed to track A3-21 down to Rivet City, but he’d yet to snatch the physically-prowessed unit. To lunge at someone as strong as that would be literal suicide, and even someone as rash as Zimmer knew that much. Complicating matters even more was that A3-21, now calling himself ‘Harkness’, was the chief of security, making him a very visible target. The unit had gotten his memory wiped and personality reformatted, likely by those freedom-fighting weirdos in the Railroad, and had even received some minor reconstruction surgery. But, based on the photos, Harkness still looked too close himself and Jack for comfort. The synth’s existence haunted Reaper, and he secretly hoped that Father would decide that killing the runaway was the best course of action.

In Dr. Zimmer’s absence, a younger scientist named Dr. Ayo had been assigned as the acting Lead at the SRB. He was a whole other flavor of douchebag and Reaper hated him nearly as much as he hated Zimmer. Ayo was left to deal with Zimmer’s many lingering problems, mostly in the form of a still very active and evasive SS-76, who was regularly stalking and offing Coursers and assisting escaped synths. Even armed with a recall code, Coursers and the Institute’s favorite asshole with a gun, Kellogg, couldn’t find or stop the blonde’s rampage.

Less than a year after 76’s betrayal, Dr. Virgil and Moira had completed _Project: Widowmaker_ , successfully pumping out a zombified super-soldier of a different sort. Agent Widowmaker, a.k.a. ‘Widow’, was all that remained of an abducted woman named Amélie Lacroix, who’d been married to one of the last remaining Minutemen leaders and a suspected Railroad agent. She’d been put through an intense psychological program that had made her in to an Institute sleeper agent, making her loyal to the point that she was practically a robot. They tested the effectiveness by sending her back out and triggering her programming. Lacroix promptly assassinated her husband before being recalled to the Institute. Father had of course given then program his golden stamp of approval, and Virgil and Moira proceeded with the next stage of their tests.

Virgil was a madman chemist, manipulating and creating strands of FEV that he claimed could create the perfect super-mutant. Widow was the unfortunate final test for the program, getting her veins pumped with a unique strain of FEV that Virgil claimed to have been working on for the better part of two decades. Per the norm for a human exposed to FEV, her skin turned green, but not the sickly lime that was typical for super-mutants. She was still beautiful, only now with shale-green skin that didn’t wrinkle or malform from the virus’ standard side-effects. Her eyes turned to bright gold, and her dark hair was saturated with a deep olive. Her body remained lithe and long, though she grew to six-freaking-feet tall and gained some muscle. Amélie had become stronger, faster, more alert, and with ridiculously-sensitive reflexes. And, to top it off, she’d lost absolutely none of her intelligence or reasoning skills, a feature that crippled other super-mutants and rendered them mostly useless as agents or workers. On the contrary, she’d actually gained a few points of intelligence, which was absolutely unheard of with the common strains of FEV.

To put it simply, the enhanced virus was a resounding success, but past experiments had proven that time could revert positive FEV side-effects, so Father required that they keep her underground and monitored for a year. Widow was handed over to Reaper for training during that period, and he’d found she was a gifted fighter and had a good eye for rifles. Her cold and socially-stiff personality meshed well with Reaper’s immense distaste for meaningless conversation and they ended up doing well enough together that Father had made him her manager while she was at the hub—Widow would directly report to Reaper while at the Institute, and to Kellogg while working above ground.

A year passed and there was no sign of Widow’s mutations or enhancements regressing. The success of the program seemed to imply the creation of more units under the _Widowmaker_ banner, but Virgil began to act peculiarly and had become unusually cautious, citing that the strain could become virulent if not handled correctly. In reality, Reaper suspected that Virgil simply didn’t trust the other scientists with his work, which greatly annoyed the majority of the staff, including Moira, who continued to put the pressure on him to keep the program going. But after a long and private talk with Father, the program was put on hold and Virgil refocused his efforts creating an FEV strain that only increased strength, intelligence, and healing.

Widow would apparently be the only one of her kind. Seemed a waste.

Virgil went on to shock everyone when he’d suffered some sort of mental break and destroyed his lab, erased all of his past formulas and work, and ran off with whatever was left—and a hyper-intelligent synth gorilla. Why he’d bothered to take a fucking monkey, Reaper had no goddamn clue, but the damage that Virgil dealt to the Institute was as serious as it was unexpected. Moira looked to be genuinely upset by the whole thing, locking herself up in her own lab for a solid week, but Reaper couldn’t complain. He hadn’t suffered any experiments during that time, so it was fine by him.

Things around the Institute had managed to fall back in to a normal pattern not terribly long after that. Virgil’s lab was locked off, rather than simply cleaned up and refurbished—a recurring Institute practice that Reaper found terribly obnoxious—and, after some reports elaborating upon the facts of the situation, he’d been promptly forgotten. That was three months ago, and Reaper’s daily routine of training Coursers and attending numerous mind-numbing meetings a day was finally back on track.

A dull sting jabbed through him when Reaper rolled his shoulder as he wandered in to the Advanced Systems division, the sound of bone rolling on bone making one of the scientists frown as he sauntered by. He didn’t feel much in the way of pain anymore, most of his nerves being fried after his death and being doused in chemicals, but now and then it would blandly flare up as a reminder of what he once was.

 “Good afternoon, Agent.” Dr. Li was at her white desk, surrounded by white walls and filing through white paper. So much white. Against all of it, he was a big, shadowy splotch. Seventeen years in and Reaper still couldn’t understand why they demanded on using so much goddamn white. It wasn’t only blinding, it was boring as hell. She flicked her dark eyes up and adjusted the glasses sliding down her small nose. “I was under the impression that you had Courser training until this evening.”

“Widow was feeling problematic today,” he grumbled coarsely through his exhaustion.

“Oh? Did she injure you?”

“Hardly,” he snorted. “But she rushed our routine, so we ended training early.”

She sipped her tea and returned to typing. Dr. Li typed almost as quickly as Sombra, only muddled by the mediocrity of her daily routine. Gabriel’s fingers had lost enough of their fine motor skills that he couldn’t quite keep up with their pace, not that he’d ever bother to try. Better to leave the heavy paperwork to the scientists. Dr. Li frowned disapprovingly when he lingered, not looking at him as she spoke, her tone falling sharp but even, “What do you want, Agent? I’m quite busy.”

“You know that I come to see the kid after my rounds. It’s standard protocol, per Father’s directives.”

“And _you_ know I don’t permit weapons in my lab, Agent. And yet you have not followed _standard protocol_.” Doctor Li was curt, sarcastic, bossy and difficult to work with. Gabriel liked her just fine, even if she did annoy the hell out of him.

“You never actually enforce that stupid rule. Just let me in.”

Her eyes tilted towards him, hard and cool. He’d heard that she’d worked with the Brotherhood of Steel sometime in the past and had seen some shit along the way. For an egghead, she was all right. “Leave. Your. Weapons. Or you’re not going in. You may bully the other scientists but I deal with enough metaphorical and literal children around here as it is to have time for it. So follow my rules or get the hell out of my lab.”

Reaper released a low snarl from his nose but complied, holding eye contact with her as he unloaded his many pockets. Several firearms, knives, grenades, and caches of ammo were spread across her small desk, and Dr. Li’s expression soured at the show he was making of it, taking his time to cover every last inch of the hideous white desk with steel-grey and black. Dr. Li pressed her lips into a line and leaned back to glare at him. The browns of her eyes flit from him to a metal hanger high on the wall and back again. Reaper released another growl before sliding out of his weapon-lined black coat and hanging it. He could materialize up to four shotguns by now, but it was always good to have a couple of spares. “There. Fucking happy?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She pressed a button under her desk to unlock the door for him. “He’s studying Rembrandt today, so don’t be too long.”

“Rembrandt?” he scoffed. “The hell is the brat studying Rembrandt for?”

“We’re studying the way that S9-23 learns, and art can be included in that. Additionally, being creative is still something we’re looking to understand, specifically in how synths process and replicate it.”

Reaper rolled his eyes behind his mask before pressing a switch on the side where it met his jawline to unlock it. The metal hissed as it decompressed and he turned to slide it off. The kid was always freaked out by it. He thought it strange since his face was startling to most people, pale grey and scarred, his once brown eyes now bruised pits with milky centers. But it made the kid feel better and kept him talking, something that Father and Li encouraged, so Reaper left his mask on a table outside the small glass room.

“You have two hours, Agent,” Li called before she returned to her work, and Reaper closed the white door behind him with the press of a button.

Synth unit S9-23, code-name ‘Shaun’, was humming to himself at his desk—more white, always with the damn white—and reading a tome of a book when the Courser entered. He was wearing a white and grey jumper with a red-lined collar; standard synth fair. His sunny hair was freshly-combed and he looked as proper and well-kept as could be for a kid. Synth. Whatever the hell he was supposed to be.

Father had created the child, the first of its kind, as some sort of personal experiment, that much Reaper knew, but what he didn’t know was what bit at him. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t add up. It was an _excuse_. But for what, Reaper wasn’t certain yet. He’d begun some shrewd poking through terminals and journals but had no luck as of yet, and the scientists were predictably uncooperative. Sombra had teased that she knew the truth but refused to cooperate just to mess with him. The Courser had known her since she was practically just a kid but that hadn’t changed the fact that she was there to put him down if he ever got out of line.

“Agent Reaper!” The ‘ten-year-old’ spun to smile up at his guest, his sapphire eyes bright under the wavy golds of his bangs. “You’re early today!”

The wraith grunted as he dropped in to a chrome chair with cherry-red leather padding. Shaun had dragged the ratty thing in here a couple of months ago from one of the older areas of the facilities, before everything was immaculate and hideous. Somehow the kid had learned his birthday and had wanted to ‘surprise him.’ Reaper had half a mind to put it back, knowing that it was flirting with something he didn’t understand and didn’t want to, but the chair was comfortable and not blanched, so the gift remained tucked against the curve of the glass room. Shaun only allowed him to use it, fussing if any of the other scientists or Coursers messed with it.

Reaper spread his long legs as he slouched, air pressing from his nose, ripe and slow and black. He could feel his dusky eyelids droop. This place was perhaps the most comfortable in the whole of the facility, even though it was hardly a five-by-ten room made of glass that anyone could see into.

Reaper’s assigned quarters were as bland and awful as everything else, the walls and furniture bleached eggshell. He’d been requesting visibly-appealing quarters since his arrival, but Housing continued to ignore him. No one gave a shit about the needs or preferences of some old-generation failed experiment. Several months of disregarded requests and he’d opted to work on an abandoned area of the Institute with SS-76 and quietly relocated himself. That was literally a whole lifetime ago. Reaper was now forty-seven years old and had spent more than a third of that time in this white hell-hole.

“You look like crap,” Shaun teased, earning something close to a grin out of the larger man.

Reaper fought a yawn, settling for another long breath from his nose. “Shut up and do your homework, brat.”

“Agent Sombra said that Agent Widow kicked your butt in the combat exercise today. She’s getting good, huh?”

The wraith released a short huff. “Yeah, well Sombra needs to keep her big mouth shut,” he grumbled dimly. “And you need to cut it out talking to her. She’s trouble.”

“But I like her,” Shaun pouted. “She’s funny and really smart! And she teaches me Spanish!”

“I said she’s TROUBLE. Stop speaking with her. I mean it.”

Shaun sighed loudly and returned his attention to his book, tapping the eraser of his pencil against the pages. “Will I ever get to meet her? Agent Widow, I mean.”

“Not sure. Doubtful.”

“I think I’d like to, maybe. She sounds pretty cool, if she can beat you in a fight.”

“She got a few lucky hits in, that’s all,” Reaper defended half-heartedly, drained of most of his fight in the comfortable chair and the bright colors of Shaun’s watercolors on the walls. He might dress in mostly black but Gabriel still cherished bright colors and often found them relaxing. When he was being a pain in the ass, the SRB locked him in a sky-blue room with hideous, interlocking red, blue and yellow tiles, and paintings of old-world animals. A nursery, he’d heard someone call it, though it was never used for that purpose anymore. He sometimes acted out just to spend some quiet time there. His favorite was the cat playing with a pink ball of yarn, but he’d never admit that to anyone—ever. “She’s not really the type to like kids. She’s a literal sociopath.”

“I thought you said that _you_ were a sociopath?”

“I am.”

Shaun grinned over his shoulder at him, looking smug and kicking his short legs under his desk. “I don’t think you know what that word means.”

“All right then, I’m a _psychopath_ ,” Reaper corrected himself and jabbed a finger at the synth, annoyed that a literal child was correcting his verbage. “Do your homework, kid. Li already gave me enough trouble and I’m in a crappy mood.”

Shaun groaned and put his chin in his small hand to look back at his book, turning a page but showing little interest. He remained quiet for a good half an hour before his watch beeped, stirring the wraith from his pleasant half-nap. “Finally!” He marked his place with a cherry-red bookmark and slid the book into a cubby beside his desk. He turned in his chair and stood, beaming a smile down at his sleepy guest.

Reaper half-opened an eye and frowned at the child’s eager expression. “Yes?”

“Can we go get something to eat?”

“Is it dinner time?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then no.”

“Come on,” Shaun pouted. “Please? I’ve been cooped up in here all day!”

“Not a chance, kid. I got an earful from the old man the last time I took you.”

“Father’s just…” The boy’s cobalt eyes dropped. “He likes me to be on a schedule…”

Reaper stared at him, studying the sad lines on the child’s face, and the way he slouched and looked defeated. For a robot, he sure as hell looked human.

Memories of Jack suddenly flashed through him and he hissed in response, pressing two fingers to his forehead and rubbing circles into his ashy skin. He grunted as one of his nails shifted under the tip of his glove, still threatening to slide off. One of the last real fingernails he had left. Damn it.

“All right,” he caved, more willing to find an excuse to forget Jack’s face than to consider Father’s irritation. The worst they could do was kill him or kick him out and he’d be just fine with either. “Fine. But you’ll have to help me up.” Reaper extended his iron-clawed glove, looking as heavy as possible and earning a pout from the child that made him snicker just a little.

“I can’t pull you up! I’m just a kid!” Shaun squeaked. “And you’re like…a bajillion pounds!”                                                                                                                                                               

“At least a bajillion. It happens when most your guts are metal and wires. Help me up or no deal.”

Shaun pressed his lips together and his soft face scrunched in determination before he gripped the courser’s extended hand and attempted with all his might to yank him to his feet. Reaper stifled a chortle as his chair only rolled forward, his chest quaking beneath his layers of armor. “Dang it!”

“So close.”

“You’re being mean,” Shaun moped.

“We had a deal, kid. You’re an inventor. Figure it out.”

Shaun's brows pressed low and his brain got to work, his little fuss triggering another snicker from his caretaker.

The kid wasn't so bad.

 

It was two in the morning before Reaper stepped out of the elevator into the older section of the labs that branched off the abandoned FEV facility. It was drab and dark and most of the technology there was well-beyond repair and cut off from primary power, but it was his and he enjoyed the isolation of it. The only thing he didn’t like was that the showers hardly worked. He and 76 had managed to re-route enough power to certain areas to get the lights and water flowing, not without some messy plumbing on 76’s part, but he still couldn’t get it past lukewarm no matter how hard he tried. Reaper was convinced it was Sombra’s doing—revenge for being unable to spy on him in the cut-off area.

Widow had made a point to find a small room down the hall from his and got comfortable there, complete with rifles and tablets and musty violet sheets Reaper had dug out from an ancient storage closet for her. She slept there now and then, though why, he frankly had no idea. She’d always preferred the cleaner areas of the facility and often harassed him for living in squalor. Reaper understood visiting for dinner or to raid his leftovers, since his food was clearly better than the garbage served in the cafeteria, but she’d often linger, sometimes even bringing a book to read. The pair were comfortable in silence, not needing to fill the quiet with talk like Sombra did.

Turrets whirred as they scanned overhead, ignoring him as he passed. Reaper hesitated when he saw one of his three assultrons patrolling the hall, her single red light blinking in her face. He snapped his fingers to call her approach, and the robot stopped a foot from him. He removed his clawed gloves, tossing them on a metal bin against the wall so he’d have easier access to her wiring, and sighed when a loose fingernail dropped from the tip of the glove onto the floor. He shook the blood off his finger and produced a small tool from his belt to remove her face plate. The wraith tinkered carefully with the brightly-colored wires around her eye until it flickered and beamed brightly again. He replaced the plating, screwing it back on before waving a hand to dismiss her, and the assultron wandered off to continue her patrol in mechanical silence.

Reaper sat on a box he often used as a makeshift bench and began the process of dressing down for the evening. The routine was the same every night: check the robots, undress, review himself for any repairs, take a shower, cook dinner, read, and go to bed by four in the morning before getting up at seven. Being a biomechanical undead freak had its benefits, and not requiring much in the way of sleep was one of the big ones.

He released a content growl while untying the laces of his boots, finding the repetition calming, before sliding them off and placing them against the wall. The familiar process repeated, removing his mask, coat and breastplate, carefully lining them up against the wall for easy access in the morning.

Once down to his layers of black ballistic weave, Reaper floated in to his bathroom to finish undressing. Sure enough, under the bullet-proof layers, nestled between two old-life scars across his shoulder and neck, was a dark grey splotch where Widow had struck him at the joint where his clavicle met his shoulder. The inky blood collecting under the surface of his ashy skin was evidence enough of deep tissue damage. Normally, he’d have healed within a minute or two, but stress and exhaustion was lagging the process, his nanites distracted elsewhere, but the swarm buzzed in his skull and assured him that the bruising would be healed by morning.

The wraith ghosted in to his shower to rinse off the thin layer of sweat from wearing heavy clothing and armor all day. Sweating was one of the things his body was still capable of doing properly, though it smelled faintly of grease. Sombra often commented that he smelled like a mechanic that had been in a fire accident.

 Once cleaned and dried, he pulled on some black sweatpants, draping a towel around his shoulders and heading towards his small but well-organized kitchen to prepare dinner. Reaper hesitated in the doorway at the familiar shape sitting at the refurbished oak dining table. “Sombra,” he growled lowly. She was humming as she thumbed through a datapad. She didn’t even glance up as she bobbed her boot around. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The petite woman gave him a dramatic once-over and whistled. “Luciendo bien,” she wagged her eyebrows.

“Get. Out.”

She stuck out a pouty lip as he sauntered into the kitchen and began to rummage through his fridge for a beer. “Oh, come on, Gabe. I’m only here to make sure that our resident Duchess didn’t hurt you too badly. Am I not allowed to show concern for my dear commander?”

“No.”

Sombra leaned her head back to pout at him as he scowled down at her. “Would it help if I said that your eyes are looking particularly milky and creepy tonight?” The hacker fluttered her eyelashes and squealed, dropping the legs of her chair to the floor when he took a swat at her. “Oh, calm down. You’re just grouchy because you got your butt kicked by a girl.”

He loudly set his beer bottle on the counter before grabbing materials from his meticulously-organized cupboards. “LEAVE.”

“What you makin’ us for din-din tonight, Gabe?”

Gabriel glared furiously into his frying pan, tossing some butter in as he prepared his bread. “A grilled cheese. Where the hell is Widow?”

“How would I know?” Sombra scoffed loudly behind him and tossed her datapad on the table to come her fingers through her multi-colored hair.

“You’re…” Reaper hesitated to consider the word very carefully, dropping the first slice of bread into the pan, “friends.”

Sombra snorted a laugh, the sound harsh and catty and sharp. “Right. Well, I think she went up-top with Kellogg. I saw ‘er head out around three or so.”

Reaper could feel her smile at him, all white teeth and impish glee. Sombra knew how much he loathed the mercenary and was deeply jealous of both Kellogg’s position and his freedom to come and go. He opted to avoid her bait. The wraith put some cheese down before planting another piece of bread on and flipping the sandwich. Reaper wiped his hands and angled to look at her. Sombra quickly turned her eyes away, whistling loudly, and he released another annoyed grunt. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me,” he snapped. “You know how I hate that.”

“I can’t help having eyes, Gabe!”

Reaper exhaled through flared nostrils and ran a hand through his damp hair, pressing the wavy streaks of silver from his face. “LEAVE,” he tried again and slid his food on a plate. “I have no time for this tonight, Sombra. I’m serious.”

“Oohhh, jefe is serious… Tan asustado.”

This was typical. She’d harass him until he pulled a weapon on her and she’d scamper off, but Reaper was too tired for her games. He normally had Widow close by to at least blunt her a little. She could get Sombra to shut up easier than he could. But it was just them tonight. Great.

“What got Amélie so worked up anyways?” she asked and turned her eyes towards her purple and pink nails. “She was sure pissy. It’s not like her to be so aggressive.”

“I have no fucking idea.” He set his plate down and grabbed his beer off the counter before dropping in to his favorite chair, the black one with some padding still left. “Maybe Kellogg’s been working her harder than usual. She didn’t say anything about it, one way or the other.”

Sombra hawked at him as he took a large bite, his fangs making easy work of the bread. “So you’re seriously not going to feed me?”

“No.”

“¡Soy el invitado! It’s a well-known but unspoken house rule that you must feed me!”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Fuck off.”

Sombra pressed her lips together and allowed a loud, childish huff. “Ugh! FINE. I’ll just eat the lasagna leftovers from Tuesday,” she complained loudly in Spanish as she got up to pull the food from the fridge, shooting the content Reaper a few hostile glares between each movement. Sombra had her ass sticking out as she stared at the rotating plate inside, her head in her elbows on the counter in the way she knew most annoyed him.

Reaper rolled his eyes and picked up his tablet to scroll through his Institute news feed. Reading was a challenge due to his catarcats, and Sombra regularly gave him shit for the huge typeface, usually using it as a cheap joke about his age. He didn’t age anymore but she didn’t let that little detail stop her from getting a snicker at his expense.  

Everything seemed standard until he reached a headline that nearly had him jumping from his seat.

> EMERGENCY NOTICE [ALL HANDS]
> 
> Agent Conrad Kellogg was confirmed deceased as of 0205 12/20/2287 at Fort Hagan during an ecounter with a Mr. Nathanial Sole Washington--the last living resident of Vault 111 and my biological father.
> 
> A thorough debrief can be expected with the general staff by COB 12/21/2287.
> 
> Agent Kellog’s body has been recovered and is on-transport to the Institute for autopsy.
> 
> As the final subject is now expired, this officially closes Project: Human Longevity _._
> 
> It is also worth noting that the Brotherhood of Steel (East Chapter, led by one Arthur Maxson) has officially entered the Commonwealth with the intention of locating us and interrupting our work. I shall coordinate efforts with Dr. Ayo (SRB) and Dr. Li (ASD) to begin the process of gathering intelligence and generating a plan to deal with them in the short and long term.
> 
> Please direct all inquiries regarding these or any other relevant matters to me.
> 
> Signed,
> 
> Father

“DEAD?” Kellogg was an arrogant prick, sure, but he was a smart and capable arrogant prick, and Reaper expected that he hadn’t gone down easily.

Sombra glanced from watching her food rotate in the microwave. “Huh? What happened? Who’s dead?” She stole the tablet and her eyes turned to saucers. “HOLY SHIT! NO WAY!”

Reaper squinted and snatched his tablet back to re-read the message. “Do you know anything about this Washington guy?”

“Uhh…” she trailed, jaw still agape. “Right… Nathaniel Washington. He’s Father’s biological father. The previous Director left him alive in case Father, the Shaun-Father not the popsickle-father, died when they first snatched him from Vault 111. Kellogg killed the old lady, so the dad was the only backup in case things went bad. There are too many fathers in this story, Christ.”

“They left the guy alive? Even after the Gen-3 program succeeded?” That was unlike standard Institute protocol.  “Why? And how the hell did this asshole get out? You can’t just unfreeze yourself.”

“I don’t know!”

“You’re the fucking hacker here,” he growled. “Find. Out.”

Sombra glared at him. “Fine. But only if you feed me. And not a shitty sandwich, either. I demand real food. Food or no deal.”

Reaper snarled but stood to approach his fridge. “Get you’re ass to work.”

Sombra smirked victoriously and flopped in a chair at the table to work her magic while the wraith grumbled and threw together an omelet. “It looks like Father released our little friend on October twenty-third,” she talked through a mouthful of egg a short time later. “The Board was pitching to turn off the life-support but Father opted to take a back-road and just let him out without even talking to them about it.”

Reaper sat down, still wiping his hands after washing the dishes. “That sounds about right.” Father wasn’t exactly known for patience, and he could often frustrate the scientists by disregarding their preferences or requests and just do things the way he decided was best.

“He’s been tracking daddy-dearest with the SRB’s creepy synthetic birds. The vaultie’s been seen helping out settlers and shit; even met with that stranded Brotherhood group in Cambridge. Mostly, he’s just been leaving lots of bodybags behind him. Killing tons of raiders and crap like that. The last time he was spotted was in Diamond City a couple of days ago. It looks like Kellogg requested support earlier this afternoon when Washington was getting too close for comfort, which is probably why Widow was in such a rush to get out of here.”

“She was with him in the fight?”

“I guess so… She reported back in, though, so she must be all right. I’m sure they’re going to interview her as soon as she gets back. She must be escorting his body for it to take so long.”

Gabriel leaned back and hummed. “You said that he was in Diamond City? Wasn’t Kellogg stationed there?”

“Yeah? So what?”

“He was living there with Shaun,” he growled thoughtfully. “The synth Shaun. Father had Kellogg take him for a few months and live in Diamond City but didn’t say why. Had the twerp brought back last month without any rhyme or reason for it. That whole situation has been bugging the hell out of me. Why did Father create some synthetic kid of himself? Why send him to the upside? Why with Kellogg, of all people? Why suddenly bring him back? None of it lined up, but it’s clear now that he was nothing but bait.” The wraith hunched forward and jabbed a metal-coated claw at the table, his milky eyes stewing. “Father had every reason to get revenge on Kellogg for killing his dear-old mom but couldn’t do it directly. He had to get…creative. Father constructed a knockoff of himself and planted it with Kellogg in a public location. Once daddy woke up, he was probably HUGELY pissed. He’d eventually end up in Diamond City, where people could confirm that they’d spotted a man matching Kellogg’s description with a boy, so he tracked Kellogg down and put a bullet in his head. And if this Washington guy’s so damn driven to hunt down and kill a guy like Conrad fucking Kellogg, it’s only a matter of time before he finds his way here in effort to reuinite himself with what he perceives to be his kid.”

“I mean, I guess that makes sense. But why would Father want him to find the Institute? I mean, he might be Shaun’s biological father but it ain’t like he raised ‘im or whatever. Might make for an awkward family reuinion. Especially when he finds out that the synth kid isn’t his actual son.”

“I don’t really know what the end-game is supposed to be,” Reaper admitted and leaned back again, sucking his fangs with his tongue. “Father isn’t easy to read, even for me, but my money’s on that this was all just an elaborate workaround to get revenge. Father couldn’t kill Kellogg himself but his daddy sure as hell could—apparently. How the hell he managed that, I’m not sure. Kellogg was no fucking joke. He might not have  been as strong as I am, but he was sure as hell a good shot and a survivor.”

“Washington was in the original SEP,” Sombra clarified, now looking back over her tablet. “The one Moira based yours on? He was soldier number six.” She offered the tablet to Reaper for a review of his file.

“Holy fucking shit…”The wraith nearly choked on his own tongue at the photograph, feeling like his heart might actually explode. That face… Those eyes… Those cold, distant, perfect eyes… Reaper wanted to throw the tablet across the room but settled for dropping it like the thing were on fire. “SHIT!”

Sombra scooped the tablet back up. “He sort of looks like Jack, huh?”

Reaper glowered at her before abruptly standing. “I’m going to bed.”

“A little early to crash, ain’t it, Gabe?”

“GO HOME, SOMBRA,” he roared and ghosted back to his room, slipping under the crack at the bottom of the door and rematerializing on his bed. Reaper exhaled a shaky breath and hid his face in his pillow, closing his eyes and desperately trying but failing to forget that haunting, beautiful face.

Nathaniel Washington was going to be trouble, one way or another.

 

“How you feelin’, Duchess?” Sombra shut the door behind her and took a seat on the traditionally-uncomfortable chair of the room they used to interview returning Coursers.

Widow was working on cleaning her sniper rifle, looking particularly perturbed. The woman was dressed down to a dark olive tank and skin-tight cargo pants, her armor already having been removed for any repairs and clean-up. Olivia had always found her to be beautiful, even for a super-mutant— _especially_ for a super-mutant. Amélie was all leg, and her golden eyes pierced straight through all of the walls the hacker set up between herself and the world. Under most circumstances, such vulnerability would be a cause for serious alarm, but Sombra was perfectly comfortable around the older woman, finding the way that Amélie broke her walls to be strangely relaxing. It was nice to have one or two people that she felt safe being herself around, though that certainly did not mean that she could trust Amélie. Gabe was right—Sombra really hoped that they were friends. But she wasn’t stupid. The sniper’s programming left her treacherous; she’d turn Sombra in to Father for any signs of disloyalty to the Institute, but Sombra was fine with that. She knew the careful dance around Amélie’s unique personality and how to get around the rough spots.

“I’m undamaged,” Widow snapped and unscrewed the silencer to look through it. She had some cuts and bruises but nothing of consequence, looking probably dirtier than she was injured.

Sombra hummed and pulled her legs to her chest. Gabriel was in the next room, reviewing what had happened with Kellogg and his next job with Father. “So…did you see it happen?”

“Of course I saw.”

“Come on, Ammie. Share?”

“You may read my report, the same as everyone else.”

“You know I hate reading,” Sombra pouted.

Amélie glared at her from the corner of one of her eyes, the yellow irises burning like dark suns. “Kellogg had locked himself away in the depths of the fort, accompanied by several Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths, but the target and his three associates easily infiltrated the fortification. I was unable to teleport in to the base and had to come up from behind, and by the time that I reached them, the target was already in the room and shot Agent Kellogg. I was able to injure one of his associates with a shot to the right lung through his back, but the target was too quick for me to neutralize. He threw a grenade to deter me and I was forced in to retreat while the group was preoccupied. It was then that I saw the approaching Brotherhood airship and withdrew to a nearby building. Once the airship had passed, I returned to the fort to confirm that Kellogg was dead.”

“Damn,” Sombra frowned. “So this Washington guy is sort of tough, huh?”

“He is very fast,” Amélie snorted and checked her ammunition. “I do not believe that he would be a simple target for me to handle in close combat.”

“Do you think Gabe could take him?”

The sniper hesitated in consideration of the question before shrugging noncommittally. “Perhaps.”

“That doesn’t sound very confident,” Sombra smirked, though the expression was less one of sarcasm and more nervous. Gabriel wasn’t as quick as Amélie or 76, but for what he lacked in speed he made up for in brute force. If he could get close to a target, he could usually get the upper-hand, and for Amélie to show such uncertainty said plenty. Washington was not someone to just be fucked with.

“The target is swift,” she repeated. “And he is a good shot and has high combat intuition.”

“So…you think he’s bad news?”

“Oui. He is ‘bad news’.”

Sombra pressed her lips together and sighed, running a hand through her hair and scratching at the shaved base of her skull. “What about the other three? His companions? One was the Valentine unit, right?”

“Correct.”

“But what of the other two? You said you shot one?”

“He had two other associates, one that appeared to be a Minuteman and one that used a bow as a weapon. I was able to easily injure the archer, as he wore no visible armor. He made the most obvious target of the four.”

“Archer?” Sombra spat, incredulous. “The fuck?”

“It is an abnormal preference for a weapon,” Amélie agreed, “but his body language was that of a soldier. Il était une menace.”

“Hm. So did you kill him?”

“I’m uncertain,” she admitted, “though his body was not at the site. There was a blood trail leading from the building, but we lost it in the rubble outside of the fort. However, a direct shot to the lung is often deadly, unless he received proper medical care, which is unlikely. The poor man likely suffocated in his own blood.” Amélie smirked to herself that pleased, deadly smirk that sometime made Sombra a bit uncomfortable. Widow was a pleasing thing to look at, and sometimes to talk to, but she was hardly a defenseless flower—she was a killer, and she enjoyed her work, deeply satisfied when she got off a good kill in the field. Any aggression that she'd had as a human had been agitated and emboldened by the FEV. Widow wasn't happy until she'd spilled a little blood before coming home.

“Sounds like a shitty way to go.”

“Oui.” There was that grin again.

“So this guy’s hanging out with Minutemen? You mentioned that there was one wearing a hat or something.”

Amélie shrugged and screwed on her silencer, setting the rifle against the side of the dark blue couch upon which she lounged. “He was wearing a similar hat to the classic Minutemen, oui, though his garb was dissimilar. He wore some sort of red cape around his shoulders—quite a bright target. C'était affreux,” she snorted and stretched out her long legs across the length of the sofa. “But he wore some combat armor, so he can at least claim to be more intelligent than the archer.”

“A red cape, huh?” Sombra leaned back, considering the observations. “Did he have a mechanical arm?”

The sniper arched a slender eyebrow. “Not that I saw, but it is possible. Do you know of this man?”

“Never mind.” Sombra smiled and waved a dismissive hand before hopping up. “I’ll let you rest. Heal-up, all right?” She  leaned to plant a kiss on Widow’s dirty forehead, ignoring the scowl it earned her, and turned on her heel to walk out of the room. “See you tomorrow, Duchess,” the hacker sang. She waved a hand and winked before vanishing in to the hall, looking busy by striding quickly towards the cafeteria to grab something bland to munch on.

Once there and with a cup of coffee to sip at, she dropped in the corner chair, far away from the chattering nerds, and produced a tablet from her pocket. Olivia darted her violet eyes across the room, making sure that no one was directly observing her activities, and got to work, easily accessing the Institute’s email system through a back-door she’d made more than a decade ago. Widowmaker’s report was easy enough to find, the only copy being in Father’s Inbox. There, in bright green, was a full description of Jesse McCree, just as Gabriel had once described him to her.

> He is human, standing approximately 6’1”. He is dressed in a Minuteman hat, combat breastplate, and a red cape with orange trim. He is Caucasian or Latino, with short brown hair, and wields a pistol of some design. No other firearms were spotted on his person. He is middle-aged, likely in his 30’s or 40’s, speaks with a South-Western accent, and is to be considered highly dangerous. His allegiances, beyond an associate of the subject and probable Minuteman ties, are currently unknown. He is presumed to have fled Fort Hagan alongside the subject.

Sombra bit on her lower lip, tasting her berry-flavored chapstick, and made up her mind.

> He is human, standing approximately 6’1”. He is dressed in a Minuteman hat, and combat breastplate. He is Caucasian or Latino, with short brown hair, and wields a pistol of some design. No other firearms were spotted on his person. He is middle-aged, likely in his 30’s or 40’s and is to be considered highly dangerous. His allegiances, beyond an associate of the subject and probable Minuteman ties, are currently unknown. He is presumed to have fled Fort Hagan alongside the subject.

A few minor edits were all that it would take to keep things under-wraps. Gabriel couldn’t find out that Jesse McCree was alive, not yet, or it might destroy everything she'd worked for.

She finished her burned coffee and grabbed an apple from a table before skipping off towards Gabe’s underground quarters.

There was still much work to be done.

 

A single .45 round had been all that it took to end the life of the Institute’s most long-lived and notorious agent. Reaper turned Kellogg’s head to get a better look, admiring how perfect the shot had been. The mercenary’s augmentations hadn’t been enough to save him this time. Oddly enough, some of his mechanical parts had been cut out. Even what had remained of his brain had been removed. Kellogg’s signature .44 magnum revolver was also missing, which was a damn shame since he’d have gladly taken it for himself. Reaper didn’t use pistols but it was still a nice weapon.

“Sure made a mess of him, didn’t he?” Reaper stepped back from the gurney.

Father motioned and a synth cloaked the body with a white cloth before she quickly vanished back in to a hallway. “That he did. It appears that my father is quite gifted in combat to go toe-to-toe with a monster like Conrad Kellogg.”

Reaper hummed and leaned against a counter, folding his arms. “Can I ask you a personal question, Director?”

“You may.”

“Why did you release this guy? Why now?”

Father sighed and held his hands behind his back, his crystalline eyes dropping in consideration before they flicked up, piercing and unwavering. Shaun’s soul was a beautiful pale blue with a silver core, mild but resolute, matching the quiet strength in his eyes. “Curiosity, I suppose. Exterminating such a perfect old-world specimen would have been a wasted opportunity to learn about the past.”

“Then why didn’t you have someone escort him here? Why let him wander the Wastelands?”

“It was meant to be an experiment,” Father clarified, and Reaper couldn’t decide whether it was a lie or not. “I wanted to test my father, in a manner of speaking. To not only see what an original SEP soldier was capable of, but also whether or not he would have what it took to adapt and survive. He’s done more than I ever expected—not only surviving but _thriving_. He’s…well, quite fascinating.”

“This guy’s looking for you, you know. He’s not going to just stop.”

“I am aware. Are you not curious to see whether or not he shall find me?”

“He’s a soldier, Doc,” Reaper reminded. “A violent one. He may not respond well to being manipulated or fooled once he finds out the kid you planted was a lie.”

“We shall handle him, should it come to that. Now then,” Father motioned at Kellogg’s body, “let us continue with actual work.”

“Right. Do we have any information on Washington’s associates?”

“Agent Widowmaker has reported that my father, Nate, was seen with a synth matching Valentine’s description, along with two other men, though she did not provide much information regarding them beyond their appearance as she was not in the room with them.”

“Valentine? Nick Valentine? The missing Gen-3 prototype?”

“The same one, yes. It appears that Valentine assisted my father in locating and tracking Kellogg down.”

“You’re never _not_ going to be haunted by that escape, are you, Doc?” Reaper cackled.

“You would be wise to watch your tone, Agent Reaper,” Father warned. “Particularly when I am considering placing you in charge of all of Agent Kellogg’s duties. Keep that brash attitude of yours and I might just find a more well-mannered candidate.”

“My apologies, Director,” Reaper backpedaled. “I didn’t mean to offend. Maybe I could tie off that little string and finish off Valentine for you.”

“Perhaps another time. The Valentine unit poses no immediate threat to us, and we have more important obligations that require your attention.”

“Just say the word. I stand ready to prove my value.”

“Very good. As you are aware, Dr. Virgil’s sudden sabotage and desertion has left an unpleasant taste in our mouths. Agent Kellogg’s next task was to hunt him down for extermination to protect Institute secrets, and though he managed to track Dr. Virgil to the Glowing Sea, Kellogg was unable to complete his task before his untimely demise.” Untimely. Right.

“So you want me to off Virgil?”

“A rather crude way to describe it, but yes.” Father offered Reaper a folder with the job’s details. “Due to your mutations you’re immune to radiation, so this should be simple, so long as you are able to locate Dr. Virgil’s hideout. Though she is also immune, Agent Widowmaker is still recovering from her injuries, so you shall be only taking Agent Sombra with you for the beginning of this task.”

Reaper looked up from the map in the file and arched a scarred brow. “Finding one person in a hundred miles of irradiated hellscape infested with monsters isn’t going to be so simple or quick a job, especially if I have to protect Sombra. It’s been fourteen years and you’re still forcing me to take a damn babysitter? She’ll be be nothing but a liability.”

“She’s going with you, Agent,” Father pressed. “End of discussion. You’ll be responsible for protecting Agent Sombra on the surface, as well as assisting any Coursers that require backup.”

“Understood,” Reaper blew a smoggy breath, thoroughly irritated by Father’s lack of confidence.

“Though you cannot be provided a Courser Chip, you shall inherit a translocation device to teleport you in and out of the Institute. Agent Sombra can assist you in how the technology functions.”

“I’ll make certain to be educated in its operation and all above-ground procedures before we leave. When do I head out?”

“As soon as possible,” Father replied and opened the door. “I want Dr. Virgil promptly located and dealt with. However, I am not ignorant to the fact that this task could take you some time to complete, considering the size and hostility of the area in question. In the meantime, I expect you to assist in tracking down fugitive synths, particularly SS-76. That unit has been a thorn in my side for long enough.”

Reaper followed the Director out, his eyes glowing an eager red behind his mask. “It’ll be my pleasure, Director. No one knows that blonde shithead better than I do.”

Father rolled his blue eyes and stopped walking to turn and face him, making the wraith hesitate in the hallway. “I suspect that you shall find SS-76 to be a more challenging hunt than you expect. You’d be wise to be cautious in your approach. He has killed more than three dozen Coursers since his escape.”

“No offense, but we both know that I’m more qualified to kill him than all of the Coursers you’ve created here. I know what 76 is capable of. I know how he thinks and how he operates. I’ll find him and I’ll kill him. You can fucking believe that.”

“Do not allow your arrogance to get you killed, Agent. SS-76 is powerful, clever and resourceful, and he shouldn’t be underestimated.” Father turned away again, hands behind his back. “I shall leave you to prepare for your new operations. Do NOT waste this opportunity.”

Reaper watched the scientist vanish around the corner before he headed towards his quarters to prepare for his upcoming trip.

He was finally going back to the surface.

He was finally going to prove his worth.

He was finally going to kill 76.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the start of Part 2!  
> This half covers most of the Fallout 4 game storyline.
> 
> Not sure if I will bring in Harkness, but I needed to mention his creation since it would have happened during this period.  
> I always liked him, so maybe he'll get his own little side-story someday :) though he will undoubtedly be mentioned in another story, regardless, as Harkness will have met the BoS characters in the Capital, particularly Danse.
> 
> Widow's green in this version but is otherwise pretty much the same, looks-wise. 
> 
> After some consideration of comments and my own thoughts, I decided to work more on SiOW before beginning to post WCMD. I’ll probably begin to post it before this story is over; maybe even after just a few more chapters. I didn’t have the first chapter of WCMD written yet and was having some trouble with it, so that’s the main reason I opted to wait since I want to get it right.


	19. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaper picks up where Kellogg left off.  
> Things don't go entirely as expected.

“This freakin’ blows.” Sombra scrunched her nose as they surveyed the shattered landscape of the Glowing Sea, none too pleased to have to step foot inside. Not only was the air steaming puke-green with radiation, the place was filled with nothing but mutated monsters and freaks. The place was hell on earth, and she wasn’t particularly enthusiastic at the prospect of having to wander in it for minutes, hours, days, weeks…however long Gabe decided they needed to be there.

Widow was due to meet up with them in the next day or so after all of her interviews had finished and being thoroughly checked out by the doctors, so there was that to look forward to, but Sombra was the only one of their posse—which she’d affectionately dubbed ‘Team Talon’—to be vulnerable to radiation. Gabe and Amélie were immune to rads, but the hacker had to rely on a literal backpack’s worth of chems to keep her blood from boiling. What’s worse was that she was wholly dependent on the pair of mutants for protection. Sombra was more than capable of protecting herself for the most part, but fighting gigantic scorpions and lizards the size of dinosaurs was different than shooting some asshole in the face. If she got swarmed by feral ghouls, she’d just have to trust that Gabe would look out for her, but Sombra honestly wasn’t so confident that he’d lend a hand. He distrusted her, which was completely understandable, but that meant that Reaper might actually just leave her to die somewhere. She was his leash, and they both knew it, and though Sombra had put forth effort to gain his trust and believed them to be something akin to friends, she wasn’t dumb enough to assume that Gabriel wasn’t looking for an opportunity to get her killed. She had to keep her wits about her, even when dealing with what should be a comrade.

Things in the Institute weren’t as different from life with Los Muertos.

“If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be here at all. You can blame the old man for this little adventure.”

“Do you have any clue where this Virgil guy even is?” she asked.

“Somewhere deep inside, if I had to guess,” Reaper replied, looking about as enthusiastic about the trip as she was. Neither of them really had a choice but to abide by Father’s orders. “We don’t even know if Virgil’s alive. Kellogg only knew that he fled here. Explains why no Coursers have found him, I guess. No one’s going to go in there without a damn good reason to, not even Conrad.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” she muttered as the profile of a deathclaw trudged across the jagged horizon.

“Did you take your chems?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumped. “Got about a lifetime’s worth of Rad-X and RadAway in my bag, and I’m in my anti-rad gear, but I already feel disgusting. I’m gonna glow like a freaking light-bulb after this, aren’t I?”

“Probably.”

Sombra groaned resentfully and studied the broken shapes of crumbled office buildings and downed planes. “You ever been out here?”

“Me? No,” he shook his head. “I was mostly still a human the last time I was here. No demon in my blood could shield me from these many rads. I couldn’t get close to the edge without puking, same as everyone else. I’m honestly not terribly envious of your situation.”

“Gee, thanks.”

The pair lingered on the outskirts for a few more minutes, neither too eager to enter.

“You don’t have to go in, you know.” Gabriel turned his masked eyes towards the nervous woman, the milky whites shadowed by bone and metal. “I could just do this myself. You can head to my old outpost. It’s still abandoned, based on my last intelligence.”

It was tempting to take him up on the offer. “I really shouldn’t leave you. Father would kill me if he found out. Además, podrías correr.”

“Sombra, please. Let’s be fucking honest here. If I wanted to run, I’d just let you die to a stingwing or some shit.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she pouted.

“No, I wouldn’t. But the point is that if I _wanted_ to, I could do it. Just relax and hang back. I’ll take the afternoon to poke around a couple places of interest and then swing by to pick you up and fill you in on what I found, which will probably be literally nothing. The Glowing Sea is fucking huge and it’s going to take some time to thoroughly explore it, and if Virgil’s moving around things will be even more complicated. There’s no reason for you to put your life at risk and, to be perfectly frank, you’ll just slow me down.”

Sombra studied him for a long moment, trying to decide whether or not her guardian was being genuine when he said he’d not leave her behind. “How do I know that you’re being honest?”

Gabe snorted. “Because if I wanted to get away so badly, I’d have not fucking said anything and just lost you in there,” he motioned at the dreary hellscape as a clash of thunder boomed over the horizon. The cool winter air swept over her face, radiation biting at her cheeks in warning of an impending radstorm.

“I guess that’s fair,” she huffed. “You know what? Fine. If you wanna go in there all on your own, have at it. No quiero ir allí de todos modos.”

“Go to Sunshine Tidings,” he ordered, though she knew it to be a sincere recommendation. “It’s safe and out of the distance of these storms. Should be good to squat at for a day while I look for the doc.”

She sighed, trying to sound irritated or disappointed that she was being left behind, and shrugged as she turned on her heel to stomp off. “See yuh ‘round, Gabe,” Sombra waved over her shoulder.

“Right. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“You know me,” she twirled to stick her tongue out at him but the wraith had already vanished, his outline turned to black smog that was moving in to the green haze. Sombra paused in her escape to watch the cloud vanish, wondering whether or not Gabriel would keep good on his promise but also hoping that he wasn’t getting in to something that he couldn’t handle alone. Even for those immune to rads, the Glowing Sea was a treacherous place patrolled by packs of monsters; it even had its own cult lingering around its murky heart. Reaper was perfectly capable of looking out for himself, but part of her scolded her for leaving him on his own. Sombra would just have to have a little faith for once in her life. “Buena suerte…”

The hacker’s eyes lingered on the barren landscape before she turned and began the march towards Gabriel and 76’s old haunting grounds, uncertain of what she’d find there.

 

Even for a freak that could see souls, finding a single person in the middle of literal hell-on-earth wasn’t a simple task, particularly with other souls floating about and heavy radiation interrupting his spiritual radar. Several hours of gliding through the marshes of bubbling sludge and over mountains of crumpled steel later and the wraith was getting ready to give it up for the day. He hadn’t seen Virgil in a few months but could remember the man’s caramel-colored soul, but it wasn’t until Reaper targeted a second soul he recognized that he was able to pinpoint the runaway—a brown-black halo pulsing contently in the distance.

That’s right. Virgil had brought that stupid monkey with him.

Reaper had only met the damn thing a handful of times and hadn’t been terribly impressed during any of them, though even he had to admit that the synth was pretty damn smart for a fucking monkey. ‘Winston’ was intelligent enough that he was actually given real work to do by Father, which Reaper still found absurd. It might be smart but Winston was still just a ball of fur born from a Petri dish. Reaper couldn’t understand how Father had thought it wise to actually give the thing a job, much less name it a legitimate scientist, but fuck if that’s not exactly what the old man had done.

Winston had worked with his creator, Dr. Harold Winston—another run-away scientist whom the monkey had named himself after—on breeding healthier strains of edible plants, as well as on something called a ‘shield generator’, though the synth’s primary focus was the improvement of existing Institute technology. Regardless, the darker soul was easier to spot in the endless browns and oranges and yellows of the Glowing Sea, and Reaper was able to follow its trail, leading him to a cavern south-west of the so-called ‘Crater of Atom’, the chasm where the atomic bombs had dropped on the Commonwealth two centuries past.

The mouth of the cavern was cool and dark, but the gloom couldn’t hide the souls glistening just inside. Reaper slid soundlessly into the cave, his nanites alerting him to a patrolling Protectron and a small turret guarding the passage. Reaper diced himself in to a black mist and ghosted past the mechanical guards without alarm, slithering across the floor and tucking himself in the dark and settling his black coils.

Winston’s dark halo moved through the black, standing out somehow against the pitch. While in this form, Reaper could only see in to the spiritual realm and the currents of energy such as electric current. He could also hear the gentle _ba-dump-ba-dump_ of heartbeats, feel the way the blood moved and pulsed through veins, and smell life like one could see it. It was an odd sensory experience, nothing akin to what he’d sensed while still just a Man; impossible to describe to anyone that hadn’t experienced it for themselves. Though he moved in a world of endless black while in this form, Reaper could ‘see’ far more than he could normally, and the nausea and pain that it caused him was well-worth the extra movement and awareness his wraith form brought. It was also a nice bonus that he was practically impossible to see when in the shadows like this.

“We’re going to run out of food soon,” the halo cautioned.

Voices always sounded like they were bouncing off the walls of some distant hallway when Reaper wraithed, lacking their anchor to the plane within which he moved. He focused his senses on the voice, permitting the extended world’s lights to dim and fastening his awareness to the halo and soul in front of him. The room lit up; voices and noises amplified and cleared themselves of their static, making it easier for him to listen in on the conversation. Being a spiritual predator was more than a little bit convoluted.

“Once of us should really speak with the monk.”

The caramel soul drifted to and fro in an agitated pace. “You know that I hate bothering him for supplies.”

“Until I manage to synthesize a healthy soil capable of growing our own crops, we’re going to have to continue to depend upon him and the swordsman for assistance. It’s not my preference, either, but at least they’re generous. We could always relocate to stay with them.”

“NO.”

“Virgil, please. You’re being stubborn.” Winston was a patient creature, if nothing else. Reaper could sense his passivity, the synth’s halo capable of aggression but preferring gentility.

In contrast, Virgil’s soul was awkward and defensive; anxious. “We can handle ourselves just fine. You’re being dramatic.”

“We’re going to starve to death!”

“Figure out the soil samples and we won’t.”

“Right,” the darker soul dimmed and moved around the stone cavity, uninterested in further squabbling.

Reaper’s smoke rose and materialized behind Virgil, snatching the scientist at the neck and putting a gun to his head. But something was…different… Maybe it was the fact that Virgil was as large as he was, or that his head was the size of a watermelon, or maybe that his skin was green—a supermutant. Virgil had turned in to a god damn _supermutant_. Luckily, even a supermutant’s strength wasn’t enough to get the scientist out of Reaper’s choke-hold, and Virgil wasn’t trained in combat to know how to easily maneuver himself out of it, so the Courser’s grip remained firm. “Still don’t like asking for help, eh, Doc?”

“Gabriel?” Winston was as large and as stupid-looking as Reaper remembered, nearly as tall as the small cavern was high. He was wearing his white and grey synth jumpsuit, which still looked ridiculous on him, though it was splattered with splotches of greens and yellows and browns. He had a couple of fresh cuts that were healing in to scars, looking as though he’d seen some combat while they sought shelter this deep in the Glowing Sea. Perhaps Virgil had brought the monkey along just for some extra protection, in which case maybe he wasn’t as dumb to do it, after all.

“Hey,” Reaper droned and squeezed his captive’s large neck a bit tighter.

Winston adjusted his comically-tiny glasses and squinted before holding up a hand in attempt to diffuse the situation before it escalated. “Please… Just…let Virgil go… We don’t have to fight.”

“Aww. How adorable. I’m glad to see that the fat monkey’s optimism hasn’t been dampened by living in irradiated filth.” Virgil tried to use his enhanced strength to force Reaper off but failed, choking when the wraith’s grip closed tightly enough to cut off his airflow. “Relax. I’m not here to kill either of you, though Father sure as hell wants both of you dealt with. I’m going to let you go now, and you’re going to behave like a good little nerd and fill me in on what the fuck’s going on here. Make any stupid moves and I’ll rip both your ugly mugs off.”

“Right,” Virgil wheezed and Reaper shoved him to the cold dirt floor, hacking and gasping for breath.

Winston quickly put himself between the Courser and his friend, raising his head to look as large and intimidating as possible. Reaper mostly found the attempt laughable. “If you’re not here to kill us, then why did you attack?”

“Because it was funny,” Reaper shrugged. “So,” he motioned at the supermutant with a shotgun, “I assume that you did this to yourself.” The only way that Virgil was a green freak and not a child-like serial-killer was an FEV strain of his own invention, likely one directly related to his _Widowmaker_ program. He hadn’t come out the other side as pretty as she had, however. His body was bulky and his muscles imbalanced, some parts larger than others, and his lime-colored skin was bunched up oddly in some places. The guy was fucking hideous, but he hadn’t lost any of his self-awareness, at least. Whether or not that was permanent or would fade in time, Reaper obviously had no freaking clue, but the scientist had to have been desperate to do it to himself.

“It was the only way to hide here,” Virgil confirmed his suspicions. The mutant stood up and fixed his small glasses. “How did you manage to find us?”

“Oh, I have my ways.” Reaper meandered around the small cavern, admiring the rusted tables covered in technology and random gear. The pair of runaways were geniuses but they were definitely lacking in the organization department.

“I’m surprised that Father let you off your chain,” Winston snorted. “We were expecting Kellogg, to be frank.”

“Don’t sound so fucking disappointed.” They didn’t need to know that Kellogg was dead. “Hunting people down is sort of my specialty.”

“Right… But you’re _not_ going to kill us?” Winston studied him very carefully, ready to maul Reaper if he was given reason to. What was going on in the scientists’ heads, he wasn’t sure, but they both had to be panicking. After all, there was literally nothing keeping Reaper from turning them in, even if he didn’t hurt them, and for all they knew he was just messing with them.

The wraith picked up a tool that he didn’t recognize, turning it in his hands before setting it back down. “No. I’m not going to kill you.”

“Not that I’m unappreciative of your…leniency…but why not?”

“Because you’re the only eggheads that can assist me in helping Widow.”

That got Virgil’s attention, and the scientists exchanged curious but wary glances. “Widow?” the supermutant echoed. “You want to help her? How so? Why?”

Reaper rolled his eyes and mumbled irritably about all of the questions. “You’re going to make her human again, because if you don’t, I’ll blow you to green smithereens right here and now.”

“I… You…don’t seem to comprehend the magnitude of her…alterations… Widow wasn’t made to be able to be changed back.”

“Well then that’s bad fucking news for you,” Reaper growled and raised both guns.

“WAIT!” Virgil cried. “Wait… Just… Wait a minute… All right… Listen… I can…see what I can do. I can attempt to reverse the virus, but it’s not going to be easy and it will take time.”

Reaper squinted. “How _much_ time?”

“I have no idea, honestly. A few months, maybe? But even if I do manage the synthesize something with the paltry tools at my disposal,” Virgil motioned with his enormous hand at the meager excuse of a lab, “I’d need her to run tests before we attempt anything serious.”

“I can get you what you need, including Widow. But if you fail, or if you try and turn tail and run, know that I won’t be so forgiving.”

“How are you going to explain returning empty-handed?” Winston asked, still uncertain whether or not the wraith was being sincere.

“No one but I or Widow can come out here without repercussions. Father’s got no choice but to believe me if I were to say that you’re missing or dead. I can cover for you while you work and keep myself preoccupied with hunting down other targets in the meantime. I’ll need a list of whatever you need to get this done, but know that if you test my patience or try and milk my generosity that you’ll pay with your lives.” Reaper flashed a grin under his mask and sniggered darkly. “You can’t run or hide from me.”

“Of course, but…why?” Virgil asked. “Why do this for Widowmaker?”

“Because they’re friends,” Winston answered for him, the edges of the monkey’s thick lips curling in to something resembling a smile. “He cares for her—don’t you?”

“Something like that,” Reaper admitted sourly. “Let’s just say that there’s only room for ONE freak of nature working for the Institute.”

The monkey rolled his bright yellow eyes but smiled at the still hesitant Virgil. “I say we help him.”

“Like you have a choice,” Reaper snorted.

Virgil crossed his thick arms. “You’re not going to give our location away to Father?”

“That would be a bit counterproductive to this operation, now wouldn’t it, Doc? And here I thought you were supposed to be a genius. I’ll give you three months. THREE. MONTHS. Figure it out or deal with the consequences.” He turned and began to head towards the exit, his form fogging at the edges.

“How are you feeling?”

Reaper hesitated in the doorway, not turning to face the synthetic ape. “ _Feeling_ ,” he repeated emptily.

“You were still suffering pain when you shifted like that—in to your wraith form. Does it still hurt?”

“Just fix her. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks to check on you.” Reaper snorted and looked away again before he dissipated and smoked through the tunnels, his body stinging when it was torn to a swarm of black.

Of course it hurt.

It always hurt.

 

Seventeen years after being emptied, Blackwatch—aka ‘Sunshine Tidings’—wasn’t exactly what Sombra had expected. Gabe had told her all about the outpost, how it had once been packed with soldiers and had everything from a giant mess hall to a hand-crafted firing range and Gunner training facilities. He’d also expressed how the place had been picked clean. So why were there walls and turrets?

Sombra halted her approach upon seeing an armed man patrolling what looked to be a gate constructed from an old car hood. She could see the top of a short radio tower poking in to the clear afternoon sky, and there were strings of bulbs pinned across some of repaired rooftops of buildings hidden behind the walls.

_Abandonado, mi culo…_

“Who’re you?”

She turned her gaze back towards the guard and raised her hands. “Eh, relax, muchacho. I ain’t here to cause any trouble. I’m just passing through.”

“That’s enough, Peter. You can stand down.” The guard grumbled and lowered his pipe rifle as another man appeared at the gate, approaching her with a smile that Sombra could only describe as genuine. “Good afternoon, miss,” the stranger tipped his brown cowboy hat while she sized him up. He was around her age and on the tall side, not quite Gabriel’s height but at least Amélie’s, with skin a shade darker than her own and warm brown eyes. He was dressed in a tan coat and wore a green scarf tucked beneath a navy-blue vest that looked surprisingly well-kept for a settler’s. Sombra decided that she found him handsome. His quiet smile and tender expression told her that he was on the weak side; easily manipulated, just how she preferred. He carried a scoped and well-kept laser musket, the red lights hissing and snapping inside the glass barrel, at full charge. “The name’s Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen. Are you looking for a place to stay, ma’am?”

“Like I said, I’m just passing through. Have a friend I’m looking to meet up with and saw this place. Thought I’d check it out.”

There was that dumb smile again. There was something admirable about someone so sincere in the midst of the apocalypse. “Well, you’re welcome to spend the afternoon here, if you’d like, so long as you don’t cause any trouble. This settlement’s patrolled by the Minutemen and we don’t take kindly to bad personalities, but if you need any food or water, we can spare it.” Preston moved aside to let her pass, still smiling and looking as tenderhearted as a sheltered child that hadn’t yet learned how brutal the world was.

“I didn’t realize the Minutemen were still a thing,” she lied and strode past him in to the settlement. Sombra kept her senses on alert, prepared to deal with getting jumped if she were reading his intentions wrong, but Preston only smiled brighter and fell in to step at her right.

In all reality, she knew exactly who Preston Garvey was, at least by name. He’d been a member of the last active Minutemen group, a militia of volunteer self-trained settlers and farmers looking to help others whenever and wherever they could. The group had answered a distress call at Quincy, where they attempted to defend the city from an onslaught of Gunners. To say they got their asses kicked would be one hell of an understatement; Preston was the only survivor. He’d somehow snuck the remaining citizens out of Quincy and the group was on the run. Last Institute intelligence placed the rapidly-dwindling party of runaways at the ruins of an old museum in Concord to the north-west, being attacked by raiders. Obviously, he’d at least made it out alive. Whether or not the men and women he’d been ‘protecting’ were still alive, she had no way to know. But Preston Garvey was an actual living and breathing ‘hero’ of the people, willing to put himself in harm’s way to protect a complete stranger. In her book, that made him an idiot, but at least he was an honorable idiot.

“We recently came under new management,” Garvey grinned and motioned at the buildings, which were under various stages of renovation. There had to be fifteen people there, mostly men and women, but she spotted a few children running around. Several broken-down houses were being hammered and worked on, and new crops were being planted. A large dog was barking and chasing after one of the older kids while they carried a bucket of water towards a cherry-red doghouse parked against the larger building standing in the center of the walled settlement. Sombra watched a woman bark orders at some men carrying boxes of pots and pans towards the largest of the buildings, from which good-smelling smoke was billowing out of a chimney.

Holy shit. This was the real deal. It had been literal decades since she’d seen anything like it, and her surprise must have tickled Preston because he nudged her with his elbow.

“Pretty impressive, huh?”

“Uh… Yeah… It’s…pretty impressive. I thought this place was abandoned?”

“It was,” he nodded. “We only just started setting up a couple of weeks ago. Basically nothing was here besides some old walls and rotting buildings, but the General saw its potential. He even found honest-to-god _plumbing_. I’m not really looking forward to working on it, but hey, you gotta do your part to contribute.”

Plumbing? That sounded familiar, for sure.

This was definitely Blackwatch, but not the Blackwatch that Gabriel Reyes had known. The vaultie had been here and had left his golden-boy marks all over the damn place. Sombra didn’t know if Gabe would be happy or furious about it.

“So, what’s your name, miss? If I can ask?”

“Oh,” she quickly mused over whether or not to use a cover name. But this Garvey guy seemed all right. “Sombra.”

“Sombra, huh? You from around here, Miss Sombra? I don’t recognize the accent.”

Christ. He was a real piece of work, throwing all the _ma’ams_ and _misses_ around. No one was genuinely polite like that anymore. “Nah. Been living here a while, mostly around Cambridge.” It wasn’t a complete lie. The Institute was buried under a mile of rock under the old college there. “But I come from way down south.” Way, WAY down south.

Preston chuckled and flashed another broad, white smile. How someone as uncalloused as this guy could exist in modern times, she had no freaking clue. “Well, welcome to the Commonwealth, Miss Sombra, even if the welcome is a bit late.”

“You’re awfully friendly, ain’t yuh?”

“I suppose I am,” the Minuteman chuckled bashfully and hid his blush under the tilt of his hat, leaning forward and shaking his head. “I’d rather be friendly than cruel, though. Not enough good folks these days, you know?”

“Yeah.” She studied him, poking and prodding the man for any signs of deceit. If he really were as genuinely kind as he put off, he still had to have skeletons in his closet. Sombra had learned even as a little girl that no one could be trusted, and this guy was no different, hero or otherwise.

“You have any family out here?”

“Nope. Just me. Have a couple of friends though, and that’s enough.” It was her turn to be honest. “You?”

“No family,” he shook his head. “Lost that a long time ago. Lost all of my friends, too. But I’m starting to make new ones,” Preston smiled quietly through what she sensed was some masked pain. He’d lost people, just like her and everyone else in this damn world. “The General’s always sending new faces my way and keeps me pretty busy. People are beginning to support the Minutemen again, and I’m starting to regain my faith that the world can be better. It’s…good…seeing people working together. The General’s an amazing man. He’s damn gifted at showing people how to rebuild, and people like and follow him. I think things are going to be changing around here pretty soon, if he has anything to say about it.”

Sombra raised her brows. “You sure like this General of yours, don’t yuh?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I owe him more than just my life. He’s saved dozens of people since I met him. It’s remarkable to see how much change one person can bring. It’s…inspiring.”

“Do you have a crush on him or something?”

“What?” Preston’s dark skin turned red and she smirked. “N-no! No! It’s not like that at all! I just… I respect him.”

“I bet he’s cute,” she teased and wiggled her eyebrows.

Preston pressed his lips together and looked away, red in the face like a coy schoolboy. “It’s not like that,” he repeated, this time softer.

“I’m only joshin’ you, Garvey,” Sombra laughed and punched his shoulder, and he looked up with those nervous, doey eyes. “He sounds like a cool guy or whatever.”

“Yeah, he’s—”

“ _Hey, Pres_!” a voice cut through the man’s thoughts. She hadn’t even noticed the radio on his bandolier. “ _Pres, you there? Or did you not get the beacon up yet_?”

“Uh, yeah,” Preston blushed again and turned away from her. “Hey, General. Yeah, I got the radio beacon up just a few hours ago. Are you okay? Is Hanzo all right?”

Nate. He was talking to Nate. It was the first evidence outside of photograph stills or word of mouth that he was even real. Nathaniel Washington was like Bigfoot, leaving footprints and witnesses but no tangible evidence.

Sombra eavesdropped while masking her interest by flitting her eyes around the settlement.

“ _It was touch and go there for a little while, and he lost a lot of blood, but we got him to a doctor in time._ ” With how similar the soldier looked to Jack, Sombra had anticipated them to sound similar, too, and though his words crackled now and then from the static of the radio, Nate’s voice was much sunnier and silkier compared to 76’s. “ _He was a bit of a grouch on the trip here, but honestly it was a relief to hear him fussing and complaining the whole time. Jesse demanded to carry him and, oh boy, did Hanzo hate that_ ,” Nate laughed. “ _He’s sleeping right now. The doctors here are pretty great, actually. I’m trying to convince one of them to join ranks. Her name’s Ana and she’s a retired soldier, so we’ve had a few good chats. I really like her a lot._ ”

Preston’s shoulders relaxed, relieving the tension that Sombra hadn’t noticed the man had been carrying. “I’m glad to hear he’s all right. I was really worried when you said he’d been shot. And that’s good to hear. We could always use a doctor. So…you’re sure that it’s done? Kellogg’s dead?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Nate’s cheer dimmed. “ _He’s dead. That wasn’t really the plan going in, but…it is what it is. Shaun wasn’t there, and Kellogg wouldn’t give me any names or locations before he attacked us. I got what I needed out of him before I finished him, so there’s that at least, but…I don’t really feel any better. Sure, it felt good to put him down after what he did to my family, but…it doesn’t bring Nora back… It doesn’t change anything that happened… At least now no one has to worry about him hurting anyone, but… I don’t know… I learned some things about him and it just… I can understand how Kellogg got to where he was. I relate to him in some ways, I guess… I know it’s fucked up but I think that maybe we could have been friends, if things had gone differently. Maybe not friends but…hell, I don’t know… It just…sucks_ …” Nate exhaled a long, weary breath, exposing just how tired and raw he was under all the cheer, which Sombra wasn’t sure was as sincere as Preston’s. “ _It sucks big time_ …”

Preston hummed considerately, permitting a respectful pause in the conversation before continuing. “So…now what? What’s our next step?”

“ _I’ve got a lead to follow but I need to meet with Paladin Danse first_. _The Brotherhood has some things that I need but I have to earn their leader’s confidence. I’ve already radio’d in and Danse said he take me to their ridiculous blimp for a meeting with their so-called Elder. Should be interesting. Lucky for me, I’m no stranger to the military and Danse is vouching for me pretty hard, so this should be a walk in the park._ ”

“Do you really have to work with the Brotherhood?” Preston’s body language was annoyed. “Can’t we do this on our own? I don’t like having to ask for their help.”

“ _Keep your cool, Pres._ _I need them and they need me. I’m not abandoning the Minutemen, all right? You just need to trust me on this_.”

“I do trust you, General. It’s them that I don’t trust.”

“ _I know. To be honest, I don’t trust them either, but they have supplies and power armor. In the meantime, I’m sending you a couple of new faces—one’s a mercenary named MacCready_. _Picked him up a couple hours ago._ ” The tension wrinkled Preston’s shoulders again but Nate jumped on it as though he could see it. “ _Hey, hey! Now don’t you flip-out on me, Preston. Mac’s a bit rough around the edges, sure, but he’s going to be plenty reliable once I’ve worked out the kinks. Also, he’s absolutely adorable._ ”

“Right…” Preston sighed but didn’t argue, obviously habituated to this sort of thing happening on the regular.

“ _He’s escorting a spitfire named Cait for me. She’s got an attitude that gives even Hanzo a run for his money. She’s also a raging alcoholic and chem addict but we’re going to work on that._ ”

“A chem addict? Are you sure that’s such a good idea? How did you even meet this woman?”

 “ _It’s a long story, okay?_ _Just…keep her busy. Maybe put them both on patrol in Sanctuary or something. Mac’s a good sniper and Cait’s pretty damn intimidating with a bat in her hands, believe me. Just keep an eye on them because they’ve both got a bad case of sticky-fingers, but if we feed them and make sure their needs are met, I have confidence that we can can curb it. If either give you trouble, report in to me and I’ll get them in-line_.”

“Understood. I’ll keep an eye for them and get a couple of fresh beds set up.”

“ _Thanks, Pres_ ,” Sombra could hear the smile in the blonde’s voice. “ _You’re the best. I’ll see you in a bit and keep you updated, okay? Hanzo and Jesse will probably also be heading your way soon, too. I’ll let you know as soon as they make the decision_.”

“Right. Good luck, General. I’m here if you need any backup.”

“ _I know you are._ _Have a good night, Pres. Washington-out_.”

“He sounds…nice,” Sombra remarked when Preston turned back towards her.

“The General is compassionate and makes some colorful friends,” he chuckled, “but that’s why I like him so much. No one’s too lost for Nate to try and help. I really couldn’t be happier with his leadership, save a few…questionable decisions. But he’s ex-military and has seen a lot of terrible things, and I guess he’s sort of messed up from it.”

“We’re all sort of messed up, in one way or another,” Sombra grunted.

“Yeah. I guess you’re right about that. Do you need anything?” he asked, smiling again. God, did he ever stop with the damn smiling? “I’m about to have to return to patrol.”

“Nah. I’m cool. Think I can poke around a bit? Check out these swanky houses?” An opportunity to check out Gabe’s old settlement, re-envisioned or otherwise, wasn’t easy to pass up and she had literal hours to burn before hearing back from her commander.

“Of course. We’re still renovating the place, so there’s not much to see yet, but you’re welcome to have a look around.” Garvey politely tipped his hat and roamed back towards the wall, where the guard was still leering suspiciously at her.

Sombra whistled casually and began to stroll through the settlement, pausing to watch two little girls scamper past, the dog running along with them. An elderly man was making conversation with what she presumed was his son, lounging in a home-made rocking chair while the younger man nailed some fresh boards on the roof above, laughing at some fond memory or story. Things were…oddly relaxed. There was a distinct air of peace, free of paranoia and fear she was accustomed to seeing above ground.

Maybe this Nate guy wasn’t so bad.

A couple hours of aimless meandering and grabbing lunch from the kitchen—it wasn’t Gabe’s food but the old lady that worked there knew how to make a pretty mean tato bisque—Sombra found herself in one of the cabins, investigating an ancient terminal. It looked like it had been there since the bombs had fallen, and it was in the middle of being taken apart and pieced back together again. Parts and cables were lined up on the small oak desk upon which it sat, some looking newer than others. She couldn’t help but wonder whether this had once belonged to Gabe or one of his soldiers, or maybe if it had been moved here.

There was a single bed in the small room, hosting a moldy mattress atop a hand-made frame. Fresh blue linens and a clean pillow were placed atop in effort to make the bed appear more appealing, and she had to admit that it did look better than the musty sleeping bags she’d seen placed in a couple of the other buildings—placeholders for newer beds, most likely. She knelt to inspect the framework closer, noting how parts were re-used from old cars and broken-down houses, and how some of the joints were held with mountains of duct-tape. It was a bit on the wonky side but a few shakes at the joints proved that the thing was at least secure. She sat down on the edge, finding the mattress to remarkably still retain some of its bounce, and ran her fingers across the wool blanket, admiring how smooth it was and wondering where it had been found or made.

This place was something else.

Maybe if Nate had been woken up two decades ago, she’d have ended up here rather than at the Institute.

Sombra shook the thoughts from her head and sighed, staring up at the patchy ceiling and tapping her feet. The edge of her left heel dipped and she leaned over to investigate, finding a loose floorboard. “What’s this?” she mumbled to herself and shifted to squat. There was a tiny notch in the side, obviously there to make it easier to remove the board. Sombra glanced around to make sure that no one was watching, and shut the red door before removing the loose plank to reveal a small, hidden cubby. Inside was a glass bottle of silver liquid with a rubber top. “¿Qué demonios es esto…?” She turned the bottle in her hands before pocketing it and replacing the plank.

“ _Notice to all field agents, this is X6-88 reporting in_.” Sombra nearly jumped when her radio went off, cursing and fumbling to grab it from her pocket and turn it down. “ _SS-76 has been spotted in Boston near Goodneighbor. Any Coursers capable of attempting an arrest should endeavor to do so. However, approach with caution. The Brotherhood of Steel is also patrolling the city ruins and are to be considered hostile. Do NOT instigate combat unless absolutely necessary. X6-88 over-and-out_.”

Well, shit.

 

Reaper hadn’t gotten far from Virgil’s hideout before spotting something of interest: a shimmering light floating in the sky, like a hovering cloud of fireflies. It was nearing evening by now, and the yellow-green haze of radiation was beginning to sting his eyes, but even with his poor sight, he was certain that he wasn’t imagining it. Pulled by curiosity, he floated towards it, ghosting safely over a pair of radscorpions that were warring over a territory of orange sewage and rocks. There, at the base of a mountain of rubble and iron, was a steel pole, and about fifty feet away he saw another, and then another. He squinted and approached to get a better look.

It was as tall as he was, with brassy metal cup-shaped top holding a pale light that glistened from a humming, blue coil. The polluted air swirled around the strange totem, pulled up and out, as though it were being filtered. Reaper arched an eyebrow and glanced around, taking notice that the air appeared clearer around the pole, like it were creating some sort of an invisible wall between the small mountain and the rest of the Glowing Sea. Things were brighter and less tinted green around the mountain, and he'd have sworn that he spotted a flower blooming against the rocks a few yards away.

Gabriel carefully unlatched his mask to remove it. It wasn’t as though he needed the thing to breathe the radiation, he was immune, but even Reaper struggled to get much oxygen out of the thick smog in the Glowing Sea. Sure enough, his one good lung took in a breath of pure air and he glared at the odd pole that much more suspiciously.

What the hell was this thing? Where had it come from? How did it work? Who had put it here?

Reaper was beginning to formulate a plan on how to take it down for study back at the Institute when he felt the jarring sting of his nanites forcibly wraithing and knitting him back together after a split second, some sort of metal having passed through him at high speeds. _DANGER_ , they warned in a hushed but frenzied buzz in his skull, and he flicked his senses to black, focusing on the nearest signs of life. Two souls flashed neon in the dark, one pulsing an aggressively-disgusting mix of greens and yellow, and another softer but equally bright soul that pulsed a gentle, pale gold.

The golden light was a halo that was almost brighter than 76’s, something that Reaper had previously thought to be impossible. The halo was soothing; even looking at it sent a wave of calming light through him, coating the mangled and sharp edges of Reaper’s damaged soul like honey.

The other soul, the green one, was different than anything he’d seen before. It was vicious and powerful but reigned in, like a caged yao guai. But beyond that, it was neither a halo nor an aura, but something between, glowing all around the person’s chest but the light bled and beamed out from their head equally as bright. He didn’t completely  understand what he was looking at and tilted his head while studying how the strange soul moved, not realizing that it was dashing towards him until it was too close for him to react. The world flashed and the black retracted to oblivion, reality tearing back to the forefront to reveal a young man leaping at him, a sword in hand. A sword. He was using a freaking SWORD.

What the actual fuck?

Luckily, Reaper’s nanites had more sense than what was left of his human brain had, and they fazed him just as the blade would have met his armor, allowing it to harmlessly sweep through his tingling body. He wisped backwards and solidified, only materializing two shotguns by instinct alone and beginning to fire, but it didn’t slow down the green-souled swordsman, who lunged and began to reflect the wraith’s shells back at him, completely unintimidated and unfazed by Reaper’s strangeness.

WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON?

WHO WAS THIS ASSHOLE?

Reaper snarled and backpedaled, nearly fumbling in the uneven terrain even as the cloaked figure pressed forward, his thin blade singing as it was swirled, harmlessly redirecting the metal pellets. He was wearing a white cloak, only the fierce browns of his eyes showing, likely to protect him from the harsh sun. The man screamed and leapt towards him, his movements startlingly agile, sword raised when Reaper hesitated in his firing after realizing that no shorts were going to get through. He growled and raised both of his guns, crossing them atop one another as the blade came down. Reaper’s nanites screamed when the metal bit through one of the guns and nearly made it through the second. The damaged shotgun fell in half to the dirt and began to smoke and dissipate, the materials pulling back in to their host’s body, but even that didn’t dissuade the swordsman, whose face was close enough that Gabriel could see greens around his pupils—close enough to grab, which he did.

Reaper flashed a fanged smile as his clawed hand snatched around the smaller man’s neck, earning an angry gasp from his attacker. “Well, well, well,” he purred and lifted the swordsman, a black tendril of smoke having easily disarmed him of his weapon and thrown it to the ground. “What do we have here?”

“IKA SETEI!”

The wraith tilted his head, studying the way the man’s odd soul flared and burned. “Saikin, ken o tsukau hito wa hotondo imasen. You’re not so bad with that thing. Never seen anyone use a blade like that. Anata wa sono torikku o dokode manabimashita ka?”

The stranger’s kicking and flailing lessened its aggression. “Who are you?” he spat, his words heavily accented. “WHAT are you?”

“I could ask you the same things,” Reaper purred. “Are you a synth?”

“Tabete tawagoto!”

“Oh-ho-ho. Someone’s got quite the mouth. Keep that up and I’ll rip your tongue out, brat.”

The swordsman snarled and struggled enough that his hood fell back. He was young and handsome, no older than his mid-twenties or so, with high cheekbones and a head of short, shale-green hair pushed up and back by a metal headpiece.

Reaper tilted his head again, still fascinated by the strangeness of the man’s soul and how it moved, almost hypnotized by its distinctive look and feel. “You’re an odd one,” he murmured huskily. “Maybe I’ll keep you.” Even he didn’t know what he was implying by the statement, but it seemed to put off the hazel-eyed swordsman because he spit right in the wraith’s creamy eyes. Gabriel wailed in disgust and surprise, dropping his captive to claw at his face, allowing the youth to roll and grab his weapon from the sand. Before the blade could even be raised, however, Reaper’s nanites reacted, forcing his good shotgun to raise and fire a blast straight in to him. The youth wailed and hit the ground, his right arm dropping at his side and blood pouring out in to the orange sand, which greedily drank it up.

“YOU LITTLE SHIT!” he howled, his body smoking. Reaper leered over the injured boy, prepared to finish him off, but was surprised when the golden halo came down and expanded, overwhelming him with its light and forcing him back.

“No more,” a voice boomed, still tender even through the power it was giving off. The warmth was all-encompassing and Reaper’s nanites were practically effervescent in his blood with it, quivering and bubbling from the gold forcing its way through his black veins. “No more fighting. I have had enough. Be gone!”

Reaper turned and fled on instinct, the shadowy monster in his blood shrieking and turning tail from the permeating glow, forcing him out of the clear air and back in to the heavy radiation. His nanites screamed with the monster, the symphony of terror and anguish filling his every cell as the wraith smoked as far as possible from the strange golden light.

If 76 were a sun, this halo was a galaxy.

He didn’t come to a stop until he was at the edge of the Sea, and Reaper felt his everything collapse in a black mound on the dirt. It was half an hour before he’d managed to recollect himself enough to stand, still dizzy and disoriented.

He was still trying to piece together what had just transpired when the radio in his coat pocket chirped. Reaper blinked the haze from his eyes and pulled the item out, still light-headed and feeling like his damaged soul was disjointed from his body. “Hello?” he mumbled sickly.

“ _Gabe_?” It was Sombra. The familiarity of her voice anchored him, pulling Reaper’s mind back to reality enough to allow him to collect his coherence. “ _Gabe, are you okay? You sound fucking awful_.”

“I’m fine,” he hissed defensively, his head dropping in to his palm. “I’m fine. Just…what is it?”

“ _I was wondering if you heard that all-hands message_.”

“The what?”

“ _Oh my god. The one about 76_?”

Any lingering haze blew from his mind at the name, his senses back to full-alert. “What about him?”

“ _He’s been spotted near Goodneighbor. Boston’s swarming with Brotherhood, though, so we’ll have to be careful_.”

“You’re sure it’s him?”

“ _X6-88 sure seemed sure. Pensé que podrías querer echar un vistazo. Hey, you have any luck finding the nerd_?”

“I’ll meet you at Blackwatch.” Reaper was already moving, choosing to walk over wraithing for the trip, though he still felt a bit wobbly. “And no. I didn’t find anything of interest. Shocker.”

There was a brief pause, Sombra trying to decide whether or not she believed him, not that it mattered. She had no evidence to the contrary. “ _Bueno. I’ll meet you half a mile south of the camp_.”

“See you in an hour,” he growled and turned the radio off.

Reaper would come back to check out that mountain again, but the odd pair of souls could wait.

76 was out there, and Gabriel was going to fucking hunt him down and kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins 76 and Reaper’s “hunter and hunted” side of the relationship, not too unlike canon OW. Neither of them are terribly great at this romance thing, are they?
> 
> Nate SORT OF makes an appearance! SO CLOSE. He should finally show his face next chapter >:]
> 
> I took a less obvious direction with Genji than going straight-up cyborg. And yes, he has hazel eyes. There are reasons!  
> More information on his and Zenyatta’s experiences later, but they’re mainly elaborated upon in “Coming to Terms” (CtT). 
> 
> We check back in on 76 next chapter, and shit starts to get real.


	20. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 76’s experience, the dead never seem to stay dead.

The ruins of Boston were a deathtrap of hard-to-navigate wreckage and trash, complete with dozens of fortified raider, Gunner, and super-mutant camps. In spite of the ever-present threat of being jumped by a feral ghoul or being hunted down by a pack of wild dogs, 76 liked it there. Boston was dangerous, yes, even more so than most places above ground, but the chaos stoked the heat in his veins and got his blood pumping. There was something comforting about the instinctive numbness that the ever-changing war-zone brought. 76 would clear out whole complexes of raiders and mutants, exchanging his charm for the black snow he normally kept safely fenced away. The only time that he forced the snow to part was when he was escorting a synth. They didn’t require much in the way of conversation but certainly benefited from 76 not acting like a complete sociopath.

Fourteen years of Deacon harassing him and the blonde still wasn’t an official Railroad agent, though 76 did kill Coursers and occasionally escorted so-called ‘packages’. He’d just dropped off such a package to the city of Goodneighbor, where synths went to have their memories erased and replaced, should they opt for it. He still hated the idea, but it was their choice and 76 respected it.

Dr. Amari, the brain specialist who buffed the memories from the white bit of plastic in synths’ heads, confirmed that she’d treated Tom many years back and that he’d been relocated, though she couldn’t say where and wouldn’t tell 76 any details about his operation. M7-97, ‘Danse’, had also passed through her office and gotten wiped. He’d opted to keep the name 76 had lent him so many years ago. 76 couldn’t help but wonder where the two were, or if they were even alive. Who were they now, compared to the men he’d once known? Would they recognize him if they met?

It was three in the morning and the sun still had about three hours or so of rest before it would once again raise its radiance above the rubble. 76 was leaning against the brick wall of  _Hubris Comics_ and nursing a cigarette when he heard the familiar sound of a woman being assaulted. “Looks like my break’s over.” He flicked his half-smoked cigarette to the side of the road and latched his mask on to investigate. 

The racket was coming from just around the corner, outside of a raider-infested building known as the ‘Combat Zone’, where gangs held fighting matches for their own entertainment. The fights were most often between raiders but occasionally they’d have slaves or kidnapped settlers in the ring. 76 had attempted to help one such woman by offering her so-called manager to buy out her ‘contract’, but she’d ended up screaming at him about the whole thing and he’d opted to just step away. Not everyone wanted help. There had been other times where things were different though, and 76 had threatened more than a handful of raiders to release prisoners and made sure they were returned safely to their home, so it wasn’t particularly shocking to see a pair of assholes bringing in new meat to the location, having freshly kidnapped a struggling woman. They were in the process of forcing her inside when 76 made his presence known via a healthy pump of his rifle.

The duo swung around, one of them obviously high on Jet, per raider standard. The drugged-out teenager was primed and ready to start a fight, but beside him was a calmer man in his late thirties that 76 knew to be named Bryan. 76 had once been mildly friendly with the guy, back when Bryan was just another local gun-for-hire, but the merc had gotten desperate for cash and was brought in to the local raider fold a few years back, which was deeply unfortunate. If 76 hated one thing more than anything it was a goddamn raider.

Their hostage was another familiar face—a young woman with shoulder-length dark hair, hazel eyes, and dressed in a red coat and newscap: Piper. God damn it.

Piper was a reporter that worked out of Diamond City, and she was well-known for sticking her nose in to business where she had no reason to, as well as getting herself in to sticky situations such as these. 76 had helped her more than just a handful of times. Piper was one of the more intelligent people he knew but she was oftentimes rash, and her aggressive, tenacious, need-to-know personality lended well to getting her in to tight spots. The journalist was gagged and cuffed, but it didn’t stop her from jerking and muffling furiously at Bryan, who was more than done with her shit, if the incensed look on his face said very much.

The teenage raider leapt between 76 and their captive, waving a serrated machete at the synth. “FUCK OFF! Ain’t nobody want yuh here, yuh goddamn pin-up!”

“Pull back, you stupid ass,” Bryan commanded evenly. “He’ll put a bullet in you before you can cut him down. Christ.”

The teenager snarled and spit at 76’s boots before obediently withdrawing a few feet.

“Good morning, Bryan. I see you made a new friend,” the blonde motioned with his rifle at the fussing captive that Bryan was gripping by the back of the neck.

“Hey, Jack,” he flashed his uneven teeth. “Long time no see. I’m just doing some business. Nothing that you need to concern your pretty head with.” The way Bryan spoke to him and the way his eyes lingered when sizing him up made the synth’s stomach turn.

“All right, enough with the pleasantries. Let ‘er go, Bryan, before things get rude. Besides, nobody’s going to pay to watch a reporter fight in the Cage.”

Piper growled and leered at the synth before stomping on Bryan’s boot as a stand-in for 76’s.

The raider snarled and jerked her roughly. “PIPE IT DOWN, LADY.”

“I say we KILL ‘im!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, AARON!” the older raider snapped loudly enough that the teenager winced and moved away a few more feet. Once Piper had quieted down, Bryan turned his dirty-green eyes back towards 76 and put a 10mm to the infuriated reporter’s head. “You come anywhere NEAR me and I’ll blow her loud-mouth brains on the fucking pavement!”

76 exhaled an exasperated sigh through his nose. “You have until the count of three to let her go,” he warned evenly. “ _One_.”

“Or WHAT?” Bryan shifted his weight, movements nervous. He had to be in debt again to be desperate enough to risk his life over one slave, especially someone as public as Piper. There was no way that he didn’t know who he had. “I’ll kill her! I swear!”

“Let her go and I’ll pretend like this didn’t happen. Whatever you’ve gotten yourself tied up in isn’t worth a bullet through the eye.  _Two_.”

“Don’t even pretend like you give a fuck!” the teenager hissed.

“Oh, I really don’t. But I don’t kill twerps unless necessary.” 76 nodded his head at Bryan, “But you’re not a kid.  _Three_.” Not inclined to be known as a man who made empty threats, 76 shot the ex-mercenary through the left eye, and Bryan’s body slumped limply on his hostage, burying the yelping Piper under his weight.

“YOU ASSHOLE!” Aaron screamed before rushing him.

76 leaned to avoid the attack and easily tripped him, sending the teenager crashing in to some garbage against scaffolding that the raiders used for lookouts. “Back off, kid,” he warned as the boy cursed and rose, twirling the machete in his hand and licking his cracked lips. “You can still walk away.”

The young raider snarled and lunged before being shot through the forehead and crumpling.

“That wasn’t necessary,” 76 grumbled over his shoulder. “He was just a kid.”

Piper had managed to un-gag herself and was still holding the smoking 10mm she’d stolen off Bryan’s lifeless body. “I watched him gun down a mother and child,” the reporter scowled, her voice low but laced with pity. “He was no kid. He was a monster.”

“I see.” 76 knelt to help Piper out of the cuffs, pulling a bobby pin from his pocket to work at it. “I thought you promised me that you were going to lie low for a while, huh?”

“You know me,” Piper shrugged and rubbed her wrists when the cuffs popped off. She took his hand and accepted help to stand up, independent but not enough to resist help. “I can never seem to get enough adventure these days.”

“What the hell are you in Boston for, anyways?”

“I was heading to Goodneighbor,” she shrugged. “I’ve got a friend there.”

“A friend? In a shit-hole like Goodneighbor? Damn. I knew you had friends in low places, but—”

“Hey!” Piper laughed and punched his shoulder as they moved away from the building. “It ain’t so bad.  _You_  go there, don’t yuh?”

“Well, yeah. For work.”

“I’m working!”

“Visiting a friend isn’t work, Piper.”

She rolled her pretty eyes and stuck out her tongue at him, smiling when it triggered a laugh from her friend. “How you been, Jackie? Feels like it’s been years.”

“Probably because it’s been something like four months since I  _last_  saved your ass,” 76 smirked. “But I’ve been all right. Busy, as always.”

“Lots of skulls to cave out there, eh?”

“Always. The Commonwealth never fails to provide scum for me to put down.”

“Well, y’r lookin’ good. How you manage to look gorgeous while half-covered in literal garbage, I’ll never know.” Her small nose scrunched. “You don’t smell as good as you look, though. Just a hint.”

“Gee, thanks,” 76 chuckled.

The pair stopped at the end of the road and looked up when a vertibird flew past, lights shining down in to the dark while someone shouted in to a microphone, “CITIZENS OF THE COMMONWEALTH, DO NOT BE ALARMED. THE BROTHERHOOD OF STEEL STANDS READY AND PREPARED TO LIBERATE YOU FROM THE INSTITUTE. ALL CITIZENS WITH AN INTEREST IN JOINING OUR RANKS OR SUPPORTING THE CAUSE MAY APPROACH ANY BROTHERHOOD PATROL FOR FURTHER INFORMATION.”

“Liberate my _ass_ ,” she grumbled sourly.

“Not a fan?”

The woman shook her head in disgust and lit a cigarette. “These jerks are nothing but a bunch of two-faced buffoons. They say they’re all nice or whatever, but I’ve heard of at least THREE farms they’ve been shakin’ down for goods, calling it ‘donations’! Takin’ things by FORCE. Hurting innocent people they claim to want to protect! What a load’f freakin’ crap!”

“Odd… They were a decent organization back in the Capital.” 76 removed his mask and produced his own cigarette from a back pocket, and Piper lit it for him before tucking the gold lighter in to the pocket of her coat. The synth exhaled a heavy plume of smoke through his nose, watching the grey swirl and dance in to the wind. “They had their problems but they’d never have shaken down civilians for supplies. They were the peoples’ military or whatever.”

“I guess that something must’ve changed between then and now. You need to keep your wits with these jerks lurkin’ around, Jackie.” She tugged his sleeve to pull her friend against the side of a crumbling brick wall to watch a group of Brotherhood soldiers pass. They were in custom-painted red and black T-51 and T-60 power armor, the same as he’d seen in the past, stiffly chatting amongst themselves and lighting up the alleys and roads with their dim headlamps, armed with laser rifles and miniguns. “Word is that these guys have it out for anything ‘non-human’, including people like you.”

Piper was one of the select few who knew about 76’s…condition. She’d managed to piece it together on her own, but he wasn’t terribly surprised; she was good at her job. Luckily, though she loathed the Institute and synth spies, she didn’t have any vendetta against synths like 76 who had disassociated themselves from their creators or who didn’t even know they were synths in the first place. Piper was quick to anger but one thing she wasn’t was judgmental. She wanted everyone to be safe, and she was willing to put her name and life on the line to protect innocent people, intelligent robots included.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised. “They can’t just push a button and figure me out.”

“I did.”

“You had literal years of drinking with me to get your ducks in a row. Still took you the better part of a decade.”

“Touché, you big jerk. Just…be careful, okay? Promise me.”

“I promise,” he grinned. “Now then, you _really_ should get your butt back home. Your sister needs you and you should keep close to that printing press. The best thing to do right now is to keep everyone up-to-date about what’s going on with these Brotherhood people.”

Piper opened her mouth to argue but decided on huffing, instead. “God, you’re infuriating… But fine. I guess you make a point. I’ll head back after talking with my friend.”

“Part’f my job,” he winked. “But I really think you should skip visiting Goodneighbor and leave—like…now.”

“Jackie, you’re comin’ dangerously close to bein’ a male chauvinist,” she leered.

“With the Brotherhood around, it’s not safe for the either of us out here. It’s best we both just avoid them altogether. I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave if you leave.”

Piper glowered at him and sighed another angry noise. “ _UGH_. FINE! But I’d really rather interview them and show what sort of racist, human garbage they are.”

“You’ll have plenty of time for that in Diamond City. There’s no way they’ll pass picking up new recruits in the largest city in the Commonwealth. And try to keep an open mind for me, all right? Not all of them are garbage. I met some good men and women in their ranks. If there can be good Gunners out there, there sure as hell have to still be good Brotherhood soldiers.”

“I guess you’re right,” she admitted and kicked an empty can of Cram across the trash-covered road. “Not that the good-ol’ folks in Diamond City give a crap about non-feral ghouls… But I want it made CLEAR that I’m not leavin’ just because you’re tellin’ me to!” She punched him again and the soldier laughed and curved away from her before he froze stiff and silent when he caught movement in the dark.

Piper darted her hazel eyes around the alley. “Jackie?” she whispered. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

76 didn’t look at her, blue eyes fixed coldly to studying the dark. “You need to go.”

“But—”

“NOW.”

The writer furrowed her thin eyebrows, aggravated about being bossed around but knowing better than to argue when 76 got stern. “Get killed and I’ll kick your blonde super-butt,” Piper murmured before withdrawing and jogging off in to the street to catch up to the Brotherhood patrol. She might not trust them, but it was the safest way to get out of immediate risk.

76 clipped his mask back on and dropped down to a squat while scanning the area with his VATS for any movement, keeping quiet and slow. The mask’s orange HUD illuminated some rats scurrying around the trash, and a swarm of bloatflies in the distance, but no sign of anything conspicuous. He squinted and began to move forward, quietly stepping around the many piles of trash and with his senses at full alert. 76 drowned out the familiar ambience of the city ruins, permitting the constant exchange of gunfire, barks of feral dogs, and radio music to fade away, leaving only the sounds of his own breathing and heartbeat in his ears.

Out of the hush came a familiar and chilling noise, like a breeze with a mind of its own. 76’s pulse leapt in to his throat and he instinctively swerved the mouth of his rife towards the source, ready to fire but coming up short when that familiar ghost manifested in front of him. The shadows coalesced in to a red-eyed black figure towering over him.

Well, shit _._

“Hello, Morrison,” the gritty voice blanketed him like a numbing haze, petrifying 76 in place while his heart struggled to catch up to the orders of his brain. 

 _RUN, RUN, RUN, YOU STUPID IDIOT! RUN!_  

But he just stood there, gawking like a radstag in floodlamps while his insides turned to goo. The synth’s mouth and throat were dried up, and his effort to reply only released a faint choke that seemed to amuse the looming ghost, because it cackled a bitter sound, its empty visage shivering and coiling.

“What’s this?” the wraith cooed sarcastically. “Nothing to say to me? Even after fourteen years?” A hand materialized from the fog, iron claws grabbing the mouth of the Pulse Rifle and jerking it aside, making way for the shadow to step closer. “Well that’s a real fucking shame, because I’ve got plenty to say to you.”

_RUN, YOU STUPID ASS!_

A switch was flipped and 76’s instincts finally kicked in. The synth threw an EMP grenade clipped to his waist, knowing that if he didn’t put distance between it and himself that it was as good as death. Gabriel roared in alarm and wisped away to avoid the dangerous pulse, and the synth tore through the alleyway in the opposite direction, hurdling over piles of concrete and steel.

Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel… It was  _Gabriel_.

Gabriel was _alive_.

Gabriel was _here_.

And he wanted 76 dead.

There would be time to process things later, but for now he had to focus on surviving the surprise encounter. There was going to be no talking ‘Reaper’ down. He needed a plan. Things were further complicated by the Brotherhood’s presence, but 76 could use it to his advantage. The tin-cans could make for good cover or a decent distraction. But he knew from personal experience that there were good men and women in the faction that didn’t deserve to be killed just because he needed a quick escape and their current leader was some sort of bigot.

Good thing he had a backup diversion.

Swan’s Pond wasn’t a place that people generally visited on their own will. The old-world park was fenced off, large and colorful warning signs displayed all around to discourage the unaware or any idiots looking to prove something from taking such a risk.  ** _TURN BACK! WARNING! DO NOT ENTER!_** 76 bounded over the painted wood panels, grunting when his boots hit the cobble pathway, and ducked his weight to a crawl in effort to be as quiet as possible. He was in Swan’s territory now, and even 76 had to show caution.

His VATS illuminated the behemoth hidden in the water while 76 moved across the dirt and rocks towards the gazebo. Swan was usually stalking the small gardens by this time of night, and 76 would be a fool for thinking he wasn’t lucky that the beast wasn’t yet patrolling. He was counting on Gabe’s loud mouth and booming shots to trigger the slumbering super-mutant. The tactic was risky but trying to fight a guy that could turn in to literal shadows in pitch-black back alleys with little freedom of movement was a guaranteed death trap. 76 needed to keep out in the open, where he could easily track the wraith and had room to run, if necessary, and he expected that it would definitely be necessary.

Several minutes of tense silence went by and there was no sign of Gabriel, but the synth wasn’t about to move from the gazebo, particularly so near the lake. If Gabe was lurking nearby, this was the safest place to be—relatively speaking.

76 jerked in silent alarm when his gun lit up, pinks and violets pumping between the cracks and crevices and rendering the weapon useless as its mechanical bits jammed. He swallowed a cry of surprise and stumbled as Sombra’s familiar shape appeared, her automatic pistol in hand.

“Hola,” she smirked. “Miss me, Jackie?”

He only smiled, remaining perfectly quiet.

Sombra arched a suspicious eyebrow and adjusted the grip on her gun. “Gabe’s gonna skin you alive if you don’t find a way out’f this,” she warned very quietly. “¡Está por aquí!”

Gabriel rose from the ground, his miasma billowing around his boots and making him look devilish and downright enchanting. The wraith was still a beautiful monster. “This was a hell of a lot easier than I’d anticipated,” Gabe rumbled huskily, a large, fanged, threatening smile crawling across his horrible, handsome face. “Here everyone was making such a huge fucking fuss about the great SS-76 and you barely took me day to track and corner. You’ve lost your touch, Morrison.” He leisurely stooped to the synth’s level, eyes beaming a sick neon red and bleeding pure venom and fury. Gabriel grabbed 76’s jaw, his metal claws slicing through the synth’s skin. He exhaled a musing, sour breath through his nose while watching the synthetic skin knit itself back together. “Sort of a shame, really. I was looking forward to a good hunt.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” 76 laughed humorlessly. “I must be getting old.”

Gabe snorted a dark burst of smoke before standing and raising a shotgun to his ex-partner’s face, growling and taking his sweet time to make a decision on how to handle his prize.

“What’s the matter, Gabe?” 76 teased. “Can’t do it?”

The air was cut with the  _BOOM_  of Gabriel’s shotgun, the pellets blasting a hole through the ancient floorboards of the gazebo. The weapon was close enough that 76 could feel the heat off the barrel. “Not even clo—” Gabriel was interrupted when the pond at the center of the park exploded, sending stagnant water and moss blasting towards the clouds like a burst hydrant.

“ _SWAAAAAAN_!”

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

“HOLY SHIT! I’m out’f here!” Sombra screamed and bolted, her image flickering before vanishing.

Gabriel turned his attention towards the monstrosity lunging from the water, caught off-guard at the sight of a three-story-tall behemoth. Swan was a massively-oversized super-mutant, and wielded an actual freaking anchor that he swung wildly. He’d taken the remains of an old boat and turned it in to a sort of shield on his misshapen left arm, strapping it to himself with old netting and leather.

76 took advantage of the opportunity to careen past Gabriel, bounding between overgrown bushes and over the makeshift border of the small park.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Gabriel was frantically backpedaling and firing blasts at the furious monster, narrowly avoiding Swan’s attacks. Unless things had changed over the past decade, the wraith couldn’t smoke around constantly without draining his nanites and becoming vulnerable. Even Gabriel had to be careful around something as destructive and enormous as Swan. “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, 76! YOU CAN’T RUN FOREVER!” Gabriel threw something in his direction and made an effort to get out of Swan’s range, snarling and continuing his onslaught of shotgun blasts even as the behemoth tried to get on top of him.

76’s VATS alarmed him of the grenade but it was too far for him to snatch it and his rifle was still jammed. Gabriel new exactly how far was just far enough.

76 threw himself behind a vehicle and hit the uneven concrete in time for the bomb to make contact, and the blacks and blues of the budding morning exploded in to a hailstorm of flaming debris. He’d managed to get most of his body behind the relative safety of the vehicle’s rusted skeleton, but the searing bite of super-heated metal still managed to make contact with the synth’s calf and foot. He cursed and pulled his damaged leg up and bit through the agony as he forced himself to stand, managing to not collapse until he’d hobbled in to a nearby alley and tucked himself behind a garbage bin. He hissed and shivered, cursing his healing as he felt the skin close over the shrapnel. Gabriel might have had the pain tolerance to run with metal in his muscles, but Jack wasn’t so good at it and neither was his doppelganger.

The synth exhaled through his nose, closed his eyes and got his breathing under control, willing his mind and body to calm while he listened to the continued combat between Reaper and Swan. With a damaged leg and jammed rifle, 76 was virtually defenseless. If Gabriel managed to find him, he was good as dead. His only realistic option was to call for backup, and the only backup around would be Deacon. But was he willing to put the spy in harm’s way like that? Deacon was a good shot but he wasn’t exactly up-to-par with Reyes.

“Jack?”

76 glanced up to be greeted by a pair of familiar blue eyes beaming down at him, warm and friendly and wrinkled on the edges. He stared in surprise at the seven-foot-tall chunk of metal branded with the red Brotherhood insignia on an oversized breastplate. “Reinhardt?”

“JACK!” Reinhardt bellowed excitedly. “I cannot believe it! The chances of finding you here in all of this awful mess? It is good to see you, my friend! I knew it that it had to be you! Only you would wear that ugly mask, haha!”

 _SHIT_. “GET AWAY!”

“Huh? Get away? What do you mean?”

“The Institute’s sent a Courser after me! You need get as far away from me as you can!”

“The Institute?” Reinhardt blinked, befuddled, before he scooped up his colossal Super Sledge, prepared to start swinging the gargantuan rocket-boosted hammer around upon seeing any suspicious persons in the dim predawn light. “Where are they? I shall CRUSH them!” Even for an experienced paladin, the older soldier wasn’t any more prepared to face-off with the likes of the undead Gabriel Reyes than Deacon was.

“REINHARDT! I’M SERIOUS!”

“A paladin does not retreat, Jack!”

76 moved to stand, ready to rip his leg apart if it meant getting away from Reinhardt, but was quickly pressed back down. He turned his masked eyes to lay in to whoever was trying to hold him back but was caught off-guard by a young woman. She was wearing Brotherhood of Steel combat armor, though she wore no helmet. She had long, rusty-red hair pulled back from her pretty face in to a ponytail, and warm brown eyes that attempted to foster his trust. Freckles dusted her small nose, further enhancing her youthful look. She couldn’t be older than her early to mid-twenties. “You should stay down, sir,” the stranger encouraged gently. “I saw the explosion. Are you wounded? I have medical training.”

“I’m fine,” 76 lied and again attempted to stand. This time she allowed him, watching with disapproval while Reinhardt kept his guard up, still sweeping his one good eye around the perimeter. The fact that Gabriel hadn’t shown his face yet and that he couldn’t hear Swan’s incoherent shouting was unsettling. 76 needed to get away from these two idiots before he got them splattered on the pavement. But he didn’t make it far. The blonde yelped when his leg buckled, unable to mask the damage he’d incurred, and he was promptly helped to sit down. He didn’t fight her this time, allowing her to settle him on a pile of garbage.

“You liar. You’re nearly as stubborn as Paladin Reinhardt,” she half-joked and grabbed some chems from a bag. “Where are you hurt? My name is Brigitte, by the way. Brotherhood Knight.”

“My left leg,” 76 sighed, not even trying to hide his irritation or anxiety. Where was Gabriel? Or Sombra, for that matter? His VATS hadn’t targeted anything suspicious, but it wasn’t easy to use it in such a clustered area where people could so easily hide. “It got hit by some shrapnel. And, uh…pleased to meet you, Knight.”

“Let’s get you patched up. May I?” She motioned politely at his damaged boot and 76 nodded, giving the girl permission to begin unlacing it for better inspection. He wasn’t at all surprised to see the skin had mostly healed over the wounds, red streaks already turning to healthy skin. She ran her fingers over the lines before looking up with confused eyes.

“Morrison is an enhanced soldier,” Reinhardt explained, still stalwartly defending their narrow passage with his bulk of metal and muscle. “He was part of a special Gunner program, back in the day. It’s how he looks so young and spry, even though he’s nearly my age! I’m certain that I have told you this all before!”

“Not even once,” she grinned up at her commander before turning her still-mystified eyes back towards 76. “If there’s shrapnel in your leg and you heal this quickly, we’re going to have to cut it out. This isn’t exactly the best place to do it. You’ll probably get an infection from the shrapnel but you’ll definitely get one if I gouge the stuff out with you sitting in trash.”

“I can go to Goodneighbor,” he suggested. Even driven by rage and thirst for 76’s blood, Gabe was still a Courser and knew better than to get caught in a public place. “They have doctors there. It’s not the best place in the world but it’s the best place to go if you’re looking for medical care in the immediate area.”

“All right. Paladin Reinhardt, shall we escort him to this Goodneighbor place?”

“Though I hate to withdraw, perhaps it is for the best that we get Jack some proper care,” Reinhardt agreed. “I shall carry him. But keep lookout for any attackers, Knight Lindholm. Boston remains wild and untamed territory, even with Brotherhood presence.”

“Yes sir!”

“This…really isn’t necessary,” 76 grumbled when Reinhardt knelt to scoop him up with about as much effort as one would put in to scooping up a three-year-old.

“Nonsense! Knight Lindholm and I shall make certain that you get the assistance you require. It is the Brotherhood way to look after the injured and the helpless! Hah!”

76 couldn’t suppress a chuckle as he was carried off by his giant friend, Reinhardt’s kind-eyed lackey keeping close and alert, but the synth’s guts squirmed. Gabriel was still out there somewhere, hunting him amidst the ruins and the black.

The irony of being rescued from a Courser by the synth-loathing Brotherhood of Steel didn’t elude him, but even if a new Elder had turned the organization away from how he’d known in to be the Capital, 76 couldn’t imagine that Reinhardt had changed much. For now, he could trust the paladin and his knight associate— _for now_.

  

It took two hours to trudge through the ruins and reach the flickering neon sign greeting them to Goodneighbor. It honestly wasn’t 76’s favorite place, but it was safer than wandering downtown in the middle of the night, particularly with Gabriel lurking around.

The small city was tucked in Boston’s old-world Red Light District and was a well-known pit of scandalous activity. It was also a place where anyone could get a relatively-safe room for the evening ( _relatively_  being the key word), get medical treatment, shop for weapons or gear, grab an over-priced whiskey at the underground club, or could actually re-live old memories. It was…unique, to say the least.

“This place looks sort’f…sketchy.” Brigitte nervously eyed the patches of metal and wood of the makeshift gate. “Are you sure about this, Lieutenant Morrison?”

“Jack’s fine,” 76 chuckled. “I’ve been retired from the Gunners for more than a little while. But yeah, I’m sure. I can actually take care of myself from here. I’m sure you two have better things to do with your time than to babysit an ex-Gunner.”

“Nonsense!” Reinhardt boomed. “We promised we’d escort you to their medical facility and that’s exactly what we intend to do! The Brotherhood does not cut corners!”

“It’s fine—really. I’m fine.”

“I believe that Ana once mentioned working here,” Reinhardt recalled, his sky-blue eyes sparkling.

Well, shit. There was no avoiding it now. 

“Yeah,” 76 admitted. “She still does.”

“Well then I absolutely must see her! Lead the way!”

“Right.” As though the synth had a choice. He was still being carried like a sack of pale tatos.

Brigitte hesitantly opened the door and moved inside. Her commander had a great deal more of a problem getting his bulk through the small entrance but somehow managed it. At least Reinhardt had put his captive down for the awkward attempt, allowing his cohort to support 76’s weight. Brigitte was tall, his height in her armor and probably only a couple inches shorter outside of it, and she was well-built for combat, more than capable of holding him up.

It was practically a miracle that Hancock wasn’t there to greet them.

Hancock was the knife-wielding ghoul mayor of Goodneighbor. He was (mostly) well-liked by his community of drug-addicts and gangsters, overly-flirtatious, brutally sarcastic, wore John Hancock’s  _actual_  clothes, and was literally always high as a damn kite on mentats. He was also known for not being quick to trust, a hard-learned quality shared by most in the Commonwealth, and he probably wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about the whole ‘Brotherhood invasion’ thing. 76 could only hope that the mayor was blacked out in his office, knee-deep in whores from a drunken evening of fun, per his standard. He hadn’t seen the ghoul when he’d dropped the synth off a few hours before.

“Where’s the doctor?” Brigitte asked, looking a bit nervous when a drunken vagrant wagged his eyebrows admiringly at her.

“Just around the corner, in the Memory Den.”

“The Memory Den? What’s that?” she wondered aloud as they began to walk in the direction 76 pointed.

“It’s a lounge where people can go to re-live memories. I don’t know the science of it, but there are pods you go in to. The doctor there can target certain memories or feelings for you to re-experience. It’s supposed to be pretty decent therapy, but it’s also addictive. Some people never seem to leave, always buried in the past. It’s all too easy to allow yourself to want to live in the best memories you have rather than accept the reality of the present.”

“Really?” she gawked. “That's…Amazing! Have you ever tried it before?”

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t,” 76 replied a bit curtly when they came up to the lounge’s characteristic red doors. “I tried it once or twice, looking to learn from some old mistakes.”

“Did it help?”

“No. No, it didn’t.”

“Oh.” Brigitte’s lips curved downwards and she went quiet as they entered.

The Memory Den was one of the more beautiful places in the Commonwealth, ornately decorated and lacking the drab, muted colors of the decaying cities outside. The raspberry-colored walls were still dressed with a time-worn wallpaper, there was a thick rug stretching across the tiled floor, and the tables were cloaked with a rich velvet that matched crimson drapes hanging from corners. A candled chandelier lit the room with its warm, golden glow, and the purring glass memory pods made it all incredibly surreal. The air was thick with the scent of incense, cigar smoke and alcohol, further lulling their patrons’ mind to a state of ease and pleasure. Not exactly the sort of place where someone would think to go for medical care.

“Whoa,” Brigitte awed at the lushness. “This place is a bit…over the top…”

But 76 wasn’t paying her mind, his attention fixed on a woman in a white lab-coat who was busy speaking with a man with his back to them. He honed in on the hushed conversation, tuning his sensitive ears to block out all other noise.

“He’s going to be fine, I promise. You should get some rest while you can.”

“I don’t like leavin’ ‘im,” the stranger mused. 76 squinted at the familiarity of the accented voice but failed to place it. “He’s gonna be cranky when ‘e wakes up. Might do you some good to keep me around.”

“Nonsense. We’ll handle him just fine. Go rest. You do no one any good to anyone exhausted and you’ve been through a great deal this evening,” Dr. Amari waved dismissively at him. “Your friend won’t likely wake up before dawn with all of the chems in his veins. Get some rest—doctor’s orders.”

“All right, all right,” the stranger relented with a tired sigh. He tipped his cowboy hat and turned to walk out, moving past the trio without as much as a glance. He was around 76’s height, dressed in filthy jeans and a dark combat breastplate and red cloak, and sported a very unkempt beard and shaggy brown hair. 76 noted a customized revolver at the man’s waist when he passed them to light up a cigar on his way out. He was likely just another passing mercenary. Still, the synth couldn’t shake off the air of familiarity. Shit. This was really going to bother him.

“Jack? Is that you? Back so soon?”

“Sorry for the return visit,” 76 apologized and turned his attention away from the gunslinger. “But I’ve got some crap stuck in my leg and need some help.”

She shook her head disapprovingly and swept her dark eyes towards the pair of soldiers accompanying him. Dr. Amari was a little smaller than her cousin, with the same cinnamon-colored skin, brown eyes and short black hair. She was younger than Ana, in her late forties, but somehow looked older and more tired. The women worked together in their clinic, with the younger focusing on assisting some of her patients in reliving memories while also erasing and replacing the memories of synths the Railroad brought to her. “You know that I’m always happy to treat you, Jack, but who are your friends?”

“Paladin Reinhardt and Knight Lindholm,” he answered for them. “They helped me out and insisted on escorting me here.”

Dr. Amari eyed them uncomfortably. “Brotherhood soldiers? In Goodneighbor? Hancock’s not going to like this…” If the Brotherhood had really opted to turn against all non-humans and were after synths, she was in just as much danger as 76 was, but he trusted Reinhardt’s good judgement enough not to be too concerned, or he’d certainly never have brought them along.

“Oh, they were just on their way out,” 76 smiled through his teeth. “Weren’t you, Paladin?”

“I was hoping to see Ana,” Reinhardt pouted.

“She’s out, I’m afraid, but she should be back sometime tomorrow.”

“I see,” the large man frowned, clearly disappointed. It was only then that 76 noticed how much older Reinhardt looked. It had been two decades since they’d last seen one another, and it showed in the way his once golden hair had faded to white, though it was still as dense and wild as ever. Laugh-lines and crow’s feet exaggerated his masculine features. Even in his sixties, Reinhardt was still handsome. “I fear that we must return to our patrol, but could you tell her I visited? I hope to see her again as soon as our schedules permit it.”

“Of course.”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right alone?” Brigitte asked while releasing 76 from her support.

“Yeah.” He offered a smile to reassure her, but her anxiety remained. “I’ll be fine. The Amari’s are the best around.”

“He’s in good hands. I’ll have Lúcio give you a checkup and prepare you for surgery.” Amari knew how the blonde preferred Lúcio, their resident male nurse. Lúcio was gentle and cautious, always friendly but with hands so tender than 76 doubted the kid could bruise a peach. When it came to surgeries like these, Lúcio was the best at making it as painless and simple as possible.

“Thanks,” 76 nodded before turning his eyes towards Reinhardt. “I’ll make sure that Ana comes and finds you,” he promised.

“Very well. Be safe, my friend!” Reinhardt slapped 76 on the back hard enough to blow the wind out of most men before he motioned at his associate and began to wander out. “Come, Knight Brigitte! We have much work left to do before returning to the Prydwyn.”

“Yes sir,” she saluted. “Feel better, Jack. And be sure to call if you need any backup! The Brotherhood of Steel is ready to support those in need!” Brigitte nodded politely at the pair before she hustled after her commander and vanished through the doors, leaving a radio behind with him.

“They seem…nice,” Amari remarked dryly while the synth turned the radio in his hands.

76 stuffed it in to his inner pocket. “Reinhardt is a good man.”

“You may not think that should he discover that you’re not purely human,” Amari warned very quietly while helping him down the stairwell towards her lab.

“He’s not a racist. He won’t hurt me just because I’m a robot.”

“Their leader may order or influence him otherwise, 76. Be careful whom you befriend. Sit.”

76 complied, obediently sitting on the examination table in her tiny medical facility. She had two memory pods in the room, which she used to treat patients but primarily to deal with synths. The lab could be locked and provided for some security and cover, which was definitely necessary for her under-the-table work with the Railroad.

On a guest cot across from him slept a man with his back to him, curled up under a red wool blanket that 76 personally knew to be scratchy and uncomfortable. He was likely a synth or passing Railroad agent looking for a safe place to stay for the night. “Where’s Ana?”

Dr. Amari flit around her lab, gathering materials and preparing syringes for the procedure. “She went on an errand. I honestly can’t tell you where or why. You know how she is. I’m going to give you something to ease the pain.”

“You mean you’re going to knock me out,” 76 grinned nervously. He hated this part. Thanks to his biological enhancements, it required enough chems to kill more than a couple of people to even put him to sleep. The cocktail the Amaris had put together managed to slow his healing enough that they could perform minor surgery on him, but it always clocked him out and left the synth feeling groggy and sick to his stomach.

The doctor offered an apologetic little smile and held up the syringe of orange chemicals. “You know that it’s for the best. Besides, knowing you, you could use the extra sleep. Lie down.”

76 sighed and lied down on the table, adjusting to get as comfortable as he could before she injected him. He couldn’t help but replay the events of the last few hours, his mind and his everything honing in on Gabriel’s face and flashing it over and over in his head. Even after a decade of separation, he was still in love with Gabriel Reyes. But there had been no tenderness left in those milky eyes, only spite. Gabriel was no longer a loving or even neutral force in 76’s life; he wanted the synth dead, and it was his own fault.

76 had known what he was getting in to when he’d left, but had been holding out hope that if he and Gabe ever crossed paths again that they could somehow patch things up. That maybe, just maybe, Gabe would have missed him as much as 76 had missed the grey-skinned wraith and had room for forgiveness, but it was evident that wasn’t the case.

He’d just have to keep running until he couldn’t anymore and face Gabriel’s judgment at the end of their race of wills, well-knowing that it was a race he couldn’t win.

 

“I really do wish that you’d rest longer,” a muffled voice whispered through the fog of his empty dreams.

“I am fine. He is being overdramatic.”

“You got shot through the lung! I’d say that it’s fair for him to express concern. He’s your friend, Mr. Shimada, and he’s terribly concerned for your health.”

“I have survived far worse, and I am not about to be left behind in a bed while the Fox wanders Boston. I swore to assist him to find his son and I intend to do so.”

“You’re still healing! If you go back out there, you’re only going to further injure yourself! You won’t be of any help to Nate dead!”

“Soba and Udon shall ensure that I heal efficiently and swiftly. I have rested long enough.”

“You’re being stubborn!”

“Goodbye, Dr. Ziegler. And thank you for your assistance.”

“ _UGH_! And NO smoking! Stubborn old man!”

76 opened his eyes in time to see a figure vanish through the stairwell, leaving a very exasperated Angela to rub her face. “Was that Hanzo Shimada?”

Angela looked up in surprise and her expression shifted from frustration to relief. “Well, good morning.” She moved to the cot that 76 had been laid out on and sat down on the edge to push some hair from his eyes. He needed a trim. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit. Are you treating gang-lords now?” he teased, voice still gritty with the last grains of sleep.

Angela, aka ‘Mercy’, had relocated to Goodneighbor with the Amari cousins not long after Diamond City elected a mayor who kicked out all of their ghoul citizens. Hancock had been instrumental in their survival, always making sure that the women had everything they needed to not only survive but to treat their patients. Once Hancock become mayor of Goodneighbor, things further improved for the doctor when he handed them their own little facility.

It was good to see Angela doing so well above ground. The fact that the Institute hadn’t been able to kill her was astonishing, and though 76 tried to get her to hide out and lie low, she refused. The woman didn’t take shit from anyone.

“I treat anyone who needs it, stubborn gangsters or synths alike,” she smiled. “And yes, that was Hanzo Shimada. He’s probably the worst patient I’ve ever had. He was shot through the chest and demands on getting up and about before even a few days of rest. He is absolutely impossible, but generous. He left me enough caps to restock the medicine cabinet for the next two months.”

 76 had never personally met Hanzo. His only memories of the archer came from Jack’s fleeting experience with him during the initial Disciples attack on Blackwatch. The fact that Hanzo Shimada was still alive and that he still sounded to be an arrogant little prick was almost relieving, considering the rumors that the Overseer had abandoned his vault after some sort of family conflict not terribly long after Sojiro died. A lone wanderer, even one was combat-trained as a Shimada, was typically asking for trouble, but it sounded as though Hanzo was traveling in some sort of group. In all likelihood, the vaultie was just another caravan guard. Merchants paid good money to be protected on the often violent and gang-patrolled roads; good enough that even Gunners could be hired, at the right price.  “That was kind of him.”

“He’s not a bad man. He’s just…difficult.” She smiled tiredly and offered her patient a bottle of purified water.

“Where’s Ana?”

“She ran off late last night to investigate some raider activity or something of that nature. I don’t honestly know all of the details. You know how she is.” Angela assisted him to sit upright, knowing that the synth was always a bit light-headed after being drugged. “How is your leg doing?”

“Feels all right. No more burning, anyways. Tell Lúcio thanks for me?” The nurse was likely asleep already. Lúcio was an odd one. When he wasn’t tending to someone’s medical needs, he was throwing a party, and it made for some strange schedules.

“You’re not going to leave me, too, are you?” she pouted.

“It was just a bit of shrapnel. I’m fine.”

“You’re going to _rest_ ,” she huffed and stood. “It’s going to take several hours for the chems to leave your system, and with the Brotherhood around, I’m not comfortable with just letting you wander away half-drugged.”

“You’re just punishing me for the Shimada being an ass.”

“Maybe I am, but I’m also very serious, Jack. I worry about you.” Why she called him Jack after knowing him for so long as SS-76, he wasn’t sure, but he’d decided to allow it. Most people called him that, anyways, seeing as how announcing his name was ‘SS-76’ to the world seemed like poor planning.

“All right, all right… I’ll relax,” he promised. 76 finished off the water bottle and handed it to her. “I guess it’s better to leave under cover of dark… Gabe’s out.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘out’?”

“He’s here, in Boston. Sombra, too. I was trying to run from them when Reinhardt found me injured. Gabe didn’t come after us but he might have followed me back here. I’m not sure how safe you or anyone else is going to be with me around. It’s probably for the best that you keep your distance. I don’t need you caught in the crossfire of our little war.”

Angela’s expression dropped, the warm pinks in her cheeks draining from her pretty face. “You’re certain that it was him?”

76 dropped his eyes to his lap and nodded. “There aren’t many people running around dressed like the grim reaper nowadays.”

The doctor sighed and ran a hand through her bangs, tilting her eyes away in consideration while her patient played with the hem of his thin blanket. “I’ll let everyone know and make sure that we have eyes in the streets. How are you holding up?”

“Not great,” he admitted. “But this was bound to happen eventually. I did it to myself. I left Gabriel behind and now I have to deal with the consequences of every terrible thing that I’ve done. I just…” 76 released a heavy breath to flush the regret from his system but found that it only exposed his anxiety. “I wish that I could change everything that happened. I wish that I could give him Jack back. But I can’t.”

Angela hugged his neck and gave 76 a comforting squeeze. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll figure this out. For now, let’s just focus on your recovery, hm? I’ll let you know when Ana arrives, but there’s other news I need to share with you.”

He swallowed a sniffle and leaned back. “What is it?”

“Ana has decided to join the Minutemen, and I have decided to go with her. I’m not an official member, as I prefer to remain neutral, but I believe in their cause and I can help more settlers this way. I’m going to be able to join caravans between settlements and see more patients this way, and shall have protection. Amari and Lucio shall remain here to continue tend to our resident patients.”

“The Minutemen?” he balked. Ana had always made an effort to keep non-partisan. The fact that she’d decided to join a cause and put a label on herself was sort of shocking. Angela leaving to treat people in the outskirts wasn’t as much of a surprise. In contrast, it was actually expected. Goodneighbor didn’t need four medical assets, and there weren’t many doctors out in the wastes. “How does Hancock feel about this?”

“He’s talking about going with us, actually. The new General is quite the charmer, and Hancock seems to be more than just a little taken with him. It’s actually sort of cute.”

 “I thought that the Minutemen were finished after Quincy,” 76 admitted. “That was…pretty bad. I didn’t arrive in time to do much good. Killed the Gunners but there were no residents left to save.”

“Well…” The doctor smiled nervously.

“What?” 76 squinted. “What aren’t you telling me, Angela?”

She sighed and sat back to consider her response. “It’s…Nathaniel Washington.”

76’s eyes blew wide. “WASHINGTON?” he blurted. “SEP Washington? Shaun’s father? From Vault 111?”

“Yes. He woke up a couple of months ago and adopted the remains of the Minutemen militia.”

The synth leapt to his feet. “Where is he?”

“Jack,” she frowned and tugged at his shirt, “sit down!”

“He’s dangeous, Angela!”

She sighed in exasperation and jerked him back to the bed. “STOP IT. Nate is a good man,” Angela emphasized with a bobbing finger in his face. “He’s been helping with clearing out land for famers to settle, giving up his own time to assist those in need, and protecting people who can’t stand up for themselves. He’s even going to speak with the Brotherhood and see what they’re up to and attempt to discourage outright war. I wouldn’t trust him if I didn’t have good reason to, Jack, but my instincts tell me that he’s good for the Commonwealth and I intend on supporting him.”

“And if he sides with the Brotherhood?”

“He won’t,” she insisted. “He wants to find the Railroad.”

“He could want to destroy them,” 76 snarked,

“He doesn’t. Jack, listen to me,” she took his hands and held them, leaning forward and speaking in almost a whisper like the conversation were a secret between siblings. “There's a distance in his eyes, a cold and hard look that I’ve seen many, many times from men who’ve seen nothing but blood and loss. But in those same eyes I also see kindness and empathy and a sincere desire to help others. He’s _so_ much like you, Jack. Please, just give him a chance?”

76 snorted and turned away, unable to handle the tenderness swelling between them. Angela was so full of love that he could hardly take it some days. “Right,” he grumbled. “Where is this guy?”

“With Hancock. I think they were going to follow the Freedom Trail together. That’s why Hanzo was in such a rush to get out the door. Nate wanted to find the Railroad on his own terms. He didn’t pressure any of us for any information.”

The synth flicked his blue eyes back towards her, watching the blush swell in her cheeks. “You sure seem to like him a lot.”

“He made a very good first impression.”

“Oh my god, you LIKE him!”

“I do not!” Angela laughed and shoved him before standing to wipe non-existent dirt off of her jeans. “Rest off the chems, at the very least. I’ll let you know if he returns before I go.”

“I’ll relax for a few hours,” 76 promised, grinning. “When do you plan to leave?”

“As soon as Ana gets back. My things are already packed.”

“Will I get to see you soon? I’m going to miss your pretty face when I need to get patched up,” 76 teased.

She smiled tenderly and took his head in her hands to press another kiss to his hair. “I’m certain that we shall meet again, with how often you get injured. But seriously, Jack, _please_ be careful… I do not believe that you’re safe with the Brotherhood in the Commonwealth. You and all other synths’ lives are in danger. Ghouls, as well. This Elder Maxson has it out for anyone that doesn’t meet his narrow standards of what constitutes as human. And if you do choose to meet Nate, give him a chance. Maybe he can help you deal with Gabriel.”

“I don’t need his help,” 76 snorted.

“Don’t be obstinate. The last thing I need is yet another stubborn old man in my life making things difficult for himself. There is safety in numbers, Jack, and Nate has numbers.”

“You’re asking me to join the Minutemen?”

“No, not at all. I’m only saying that it would be beneficial to you now more than ever to make friends instead of push people away. Just…consider it. All right?”

“All right,” he sighed and dropped back on to the bed to stare at the misshapen ceiling tiles.

“Rest well, Jack.” Angela smiled at him warmly as she shut the door behind her.

 

He needed sleep. Nate knew it. Hanzo knew it. Jesse knew it. Nate could go a week without sleep before breaking, but nearly four days of nothing more than a fifteen minute break squatting behind metal stairs after a harsh scolding by Hanzo later and he was beginning to feel the cracks. It was always “Just one more hour;” “Just one more job;” “Just one more mile and I’ll take a break, I swear.” He’d promised to try and get a solid night’s sleep after this, and though he intended on keeping his promise he still needed to head to Cambridge and meet up with the Brotherhood. Danse wouldn’t wait for him forever.

There just never seemed to be enough time to get things finished. But people were counting on him and Nate wasn’t going to disappoint.

“How much farther is it?” Hanzo griped. Nate really wished he’d just sat down for a day, but he couldn’t easily argue against him coming along while he himself was miserably exhausted. It hadn’t stopped Jesse from trying, but Hanzo was having none of it. “We have been walking for hours on this stupid trail.”

The blonde pointed at a white lantern painted on to a fallen slab of the church’s rotted upper floors. “I think we’re close. The hints have all led us here, so it’s gotta be nearby, right?”

“Here’s hopin,” Jesse grumbled while hawking at the archer, still quietly fuming that Hanzo insisted on joining them while recovering. Dragon spirits or not, Hanzo wasn’t immortal, and Jesse never stopped trying to remind him of it. Those two were going to either end up killing each other or fucking each other. Nate wasn’t enthusiastic about his new-world-BFF's demand to come with them, either, but he’d traveled with Hanzo long enough to know it wasn’t a fight he was going to win, so he just let Jesse have his little fit and complain for him.

Hancock took a long drag of his cigarette, smiling his wrinkled lips on the filter. “You’re close as balls, my friends,” he purred.

Nate had been in this strange new world for two months now and had met dozens of non-feral ghouls, humans that had mutated from the radiation but managed to keep their sanity, but Hancock was easily the most interesting he’d come across. He was long and lean, with the tell-tale twisted and scarred ruddy-brown skin that most ghouls shared, but he still retained an attractive shape under all of the misshapen features. Hancock had a narrow waist, wide shoulders, and a pleasing curve to his back, all embellished by the odd choice in ‘threads’ that he sauntered around in—an ancient red frock coat, complete with tricorn hat and frilled shirt. It worked for him. There was something almost brutally attractive about the gravel in Hancock’s voice and his near-constant joking and cynicism. He was a ghoul but he was also a gratuitous flirt and a player, and he knew how to talk his way through things before they escalated, unmarred by his unsettling appearance. Between his charisma and wealth and street-smarts, he could probably get whatever he wanted, and Nate could only imagine how much better the mayor had been at it before he’d become a ghoul.

In direct contrast to Nate’s enthusiasm for his new companion, Hanzo wasn’t particularly pleased that Hancock had chosen to follow them around. Even Jesse, who generally liked most people, was visibly uncomfortable with the arrangement. It probably had something to do with the fact that Hancock was high off his ass a majority of the time and had no shame in passing the love around, slipping Nate a half-empty tin of mentats to help him keep on his feet. Nate wasn’t one for chems but he honestly appreciated the boost even if it put his friends a little on-edge.

“Good. I am weary of this terrible place,” Hanzo snorted.

“Boston might not be a fancy vault but it’s got its charms,” Hancock defended.

“If you like being shot at all hours of the day and wading through trash.”

“You just described the state of the literal world, my friend. Haven't you ever heard the old saying that one person’s trash is some other jackoff's treasure?”

Hanzo snorted a dismissive noise and looked to Nate, scowling when seeing the blonde’s dilated eyes. The mentats were already wearing off, but Nate could still feel the effects of the three he’d popped the previous hour. Being a super-human with high metabolism had its problems. “Must we keep this creature around?”

“Hey, now, there’s no reason t’go around callin’ a guy a ‘creature’,” Hancock pretended to be offended, a hand over his heart. “I might get offended and have to kick your ass.”

“I dare you to try it,” Hanzo growled.

“Hey, hey,” Jesse stepped between them. “Let’s not start a fight. We’re all friends here.”

“Speak for yourself, cowboy. I am not this man’s friend, nor do I wish to be. He is a manipulator and a drunk, and he is going to get us all killed.”

“Han, come on,” Nate pled meekly. “You said the same stuff about Jesse just a couple of weeks ago.”

“He what?” Jesse pouted.

Hanzo grunted and crossed his arms. “Yes, I did say that. And I have yet to see evidence of otherwise.”

“HEY! I ain’t the one who got nearly himself killed!”

“Only because it was a sniper and I was distracted by your nonsensical yammering!”

Hancock leaned in towards Nate. “Are they always like this? Christ. It’s like an old married couple.”

“Yes… Always,” Nate groaned and ran his hands over his face while the pair loudly squabbled.

The mayor nodded and rubbed his chin. “Sexual tension, eh? That’s the pits. They need to rub uglies and get it outf their systems, already. Maybe it’ll calm the little one down.”

“Call Hanzo ‘little’ to his face and I can’t promise that he won't rip off what’s left of your nose,” Nate grinned, only half-sarcastic.

“Eh. I can take ‘im. His little Robin Hood act doesn’t much intimidate me, to be quite frank.”

“That’s only because you haven’t met his pets yet,” the soldier flashed a warning smile. “Not that you shouldn’t be at least a little scared of Hanzo on his own. Even I try not to get on his bad side.”

“Pets?” Hancock arched a naked brow. “What, ‘e got dogs or somethin’?”

“Something like that,” the blonde laughed. “Just take my advice and don’t piss him off, all right? I can’t protect you if he seriously decides that he wants to kill you.”

Hancock rolled his dusky eyes. They were nearly entirely black, with only the faintest circles of brown left over from his previous life, but Nate could see the corners of white when he rolled them like that. “I don’t need anyone’s protection, Natie. Even yours. I’m a strong, independent woman that can take care’f ‘er own shit.”

Nate chuckled and stole what was left of the cigarette from the ghoul’s mouth to finish it off before flicking the filter to the old church floor.

“’Ey! No litterin’! Cute or not, I might have to turn you in if you keep that up, litterbug.”

“Oh, please don’t turn me in, officer.” Nate fluttered his eyelashes coyly and Hancock flashed a mischievous little smirk that went straight to his belly.

“I bet you know how t’get out’f handcuffs,” Hancock mused throatily, his black eyes glinting in the dim light of the chapel.

“I definitely do,” Nate winked.

“Where’ve you been all my life?”

“Frozen beneath about a hundred yards of dirt and concrete,” Nate smirked and pulled his rifle off his back. Hancock watched him curiously as the soldier checked his ammo and casually reloaded before swerving and firing a single shot in to the shadows. The sound froze his arguing friends, and though he couldn’t see them he knew that they’d both draw their weapons. Beside him Hancock stood confused, glancing around for whatever had triggered Nate’s alarms. “Hey,” he whistled at the motionless silhouette in the dark. “I was wondering when you’d get closer. Been following us for three miles. How about you come on out and I’ll decide whether or not to actually shoot you this time, hm? Nice and slow.”

The form slowly moved out from beneath the shadows cast by what was left of the upper floors, and Nate’s cobalt eyes widened just a little. “What the hell?” he murmured under his breath.

The stranger kept his hands up, an oversized rifle that Nate didn’t recognize the make or model of still strapped to his back. “You saw me, eh?” His voice was thick and gritty, and Nate decided that it didn’t really match the smooth and handsome planes of the man’s features. “You have a pretty good eye.”

“JACK?” Jesse blurted behind him. “Jack freakin’ Morrison?”

“…Jesse?”

“Hot damn!” Jesse rushed past and practically tackled the blonde, twirling him around. “It’s you! It’s really you! Y’r supposed t’be dead!”

“So are you,” his hostage grunted between Jesse’s enthusiastic bursts of laughter. “Please put me down, Jesse.”

Hanzo moved to stand at Nate’s left, opposite of Hancock, arms folded and expression still as annoyed and as cross as ever. Nate could feel the twin dragons swirling above them, and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stuck up as their electric energy filled the dusty air. “This man has been following us? Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because you were too busy arguing with your boyfriend.”

If Hanzo’s eyes could kill, Nate would be a pincushion of flinty daggers. “You should have told me. He could have been dangerous.”

“Jackie’s a merc.”

Nate looked to his right and watched Hancock spark another cigarette to life with his silver lighter. “You know him?”

“Sure I do,” the mayor exhaled a long stream of smoke and shrugged. “I know everyone. He’s sort’f a stick-in-the-mud and could really use a good lay, but Jackie’s an okay dude.”

The soldier flicked his blue eyes back towards his larger, stockier clone and flashed a fake grin. “Any friend of Jesse’s and Hancock’s is a friend of mine.” Nate took a step long forward and threw his gun back over his shoulder to offer a hand. “Jack, right? Morrison?”

Jesse was beaming a smile at Jack’s handsome face so bright that Nate thought the poor guy might melt from under it. “Yup! Jack Morrison! My old Commander back in the Gunners!”

“Uh… Yeah,” Jack smiled a little timidly before shaking the hand. “That’d be me.”

“Nice to meet you. The name’s Nate,” he tipped his Minuteman hat. “Now then, Jack, how about you tell me what the hell you’re doing stalking me through Boston?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY.  
> WE'VE MADE IT, KIDDOS.
> 
> For those wondering, Nick returned to Diamond City to recover from his and Nate’s little escapade in the Memory Den.  
> It's gonna take a little time for Hanzo and Jesse to work their shit out xD
> 
> The Memory Den, Silver Shroud, and Pickmann’s Gallery are all covered in WCMD.
> 
> Next chapter, 76 gets to know Nate a bit better and has to deal with further repercussions of his past.
> 
> Sorry this chapter's late. I suffered writer's block last weekend and work's been brutal.


	21. The Road to Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 76 finally meets Nathaniel Washington, a fellow SEP soldier and the sole survivor of Vault 111, and faces some lingering consequences of his old life.

76 had managed to track down a good deal of information on Nathaniel Washington. Nate had been hand-picked for the original Soldier Enhancement Program due to his genes, devotion to the country and a strong code of honor, though his skills with a rifle certainly hadn’t _not_ helped his candidacy. He’d survived the serum and successfully inherited enhancements remarkably similar to ones that Jack experienced, but not without suffering severe physical and psychological damage. Seizures, paranoia, memory loss, insomnia, bouts of belligerence and an apparent lack of empathy made it difficult for Nate to work on a team, so he was promptly dumped in to a mental hospital and forgotten. Two years of therapy later and he was discharged and picked back up by the Government, where 76 could safely presume Nate had been utilized in the war up until the end of things. All he could locate about Nate during that window of time was the group he’d been assigned to group called the ‘Foxes’. No photos. No papers. No tangible evidence of their workings.

Given all of that, SEP Soldier #06 hadn’t exactly turned out to be the dead-eyed serial-killer that 76 had expected him to be. After so many years of having only the original SEP stills and reports of his experiences both during and post-program, 76 anticipated Nate to be a little more…unnerving. He was instead presented with a smiling, friendly face, though the blonde was still almost as tired-looking now as he’d been in the old photographs, dark bruising under his eyes indicating many sleepless nights.

76 knew that Nate was shorter than he was but was still surprised by how much _smaller_ he seemed in person. Nate was shy of six-feet tall, so he was only a couple of inches shorter than Jack but his figure was slimmer and softer virtually everywhere. The soldier was fit but lithe and shared Jack’s petite waistline, long legs and fingers made for playing the piano. His face mildly resembled Jack’s but again lacked his angles, his features more delicate and rounder, like a teenager’s. Come to think of it, that’s _exactly_ what it was: Nate looked like a teenager more than an adult man, with his slender and boyish shapes and freckles dusting his nose. He looked no older than his early twenties, though the paperwork all marked him a good decade older than that, likely a side-effect of the SEP serum. It had frozen Jack’s age, too, and Nate had started the program fresh out of college not long after he’d been drafted. He’d probably be forever stuck as a man with the face that didn't match up with his actual age, untouchable by time.

But more than his size or youth, the most striking thing about Nate was his eyes: two brilliant cobalt pearls with an edge as sharp as obsidian that cut through 76’s defenses and rendered him helpless. He felt skinned alive looking in to those eyes; flayed and laid out to be freely dissected. Angela was right, there was genuine compassion swirling in those glaciers, but also that same hollow gloom that Jack had once seen in the mirror every day.

Perhaps Nathaniel Washington was a good man but he was also a _dangerous_ man, and it was more than clear that 76 needed to keep on his toes.

The old-world soldier was still wearing his vault suit, and though it was in one piece it was certainly showing some wear and tear from being out in the wastes for a couple of solid months. He wore a mix of shadowed leathers, a dark combat breastplate and a ratty cowboy hat that most Minutemen seemed to wear, and was armed with a few combat knives, rifle and shotgun. Besides that, He only carried a ratty backpack that looked to be crammed full of supplies. A second glance would show that Jesse was carrying a similar bag, though the archer lacked one on his person.

Jesse… 76 couldn’t freaking believe that Jesse McCree was actually alive, and he didn’t know how to feel about it. He was happy to see Jesse healthy, of course, though he certainly had questions, but there was now a cowboy-sized wrench jammed in to his already challenging situation. Jesse didn’t know that 76 was a synth, and if he found out— _when_ he found out—76 wasn’t certain how the gunslinger would react. With hostility, he’d presume, given Jesse’s nature and how much he hated being lied to. He’d known Jack before 76’s creation, and though they hadn’t been as friendly as the synth and Jesse were, Jesse would undoubtedly not see things in the best of light. And if Jesse distrusted him, Nate and his little friends would probably follow suit, and 76 highly doubted that it would be a simple task to just walk away at that point. Even worse, Hancock had a mouth louder than his choice in clothes and was prone to yammering when drunk or high, which was virtually all of the time. There was no way that 76 would be able to hide his identity for any real length of time. The question was, did he tell them now and risk immediate action, or wait until the time felt right? What would even be the right time to tell Jesse something like that?

God damn it.

Nothing could be simple anymore.

“Now then, Jack,” Nate’s bright voice but through the synth’s internal panic, “how about you tell me what the hell you’re doing stalking me through Boston?”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he answered honestly. “I was interested in meeting you, especially after Angela sold you so hard. You somehow even managed to wrangle Ana in to your little militia, and she doesn’t really trust anyone anymore. It was worth checking you out, but I wanted to keep distance.”

“You’re pretty slick,” Nate grinned, still shocking 76 with how sunny a disposition he had. The man’s wife was brutally murdered and left to rot in the vault, and his son was kidnapped. Nate had almost nothing left to call familiar in this world. How he managed to smile in spite of all of that was a mystery to the synth. “Not many people can get within a hundred feet of me without me noticing. You got pretty damn close, though. Pretty impressive, especially considering how much weight you’ve got on you,” he motioned at the Pulse Rifle. “Is that a plasma gun or something?”

“It’s a prototype based on standard plasma rifles. It’s got a stronger kick and one hell of a bite. Also launches grenades.”

“Damn,” Nate whistled. “I’m a rifle-man, myself. Mind if I try it out sometime? Plasma weapons are a bit louder than I prefer but they’re fun as hell to play with.”

“I think that could be arranged. Are you asking me to stick around?”

“Well, I guess that depends on whether or not you’re interested to. You wanted to meet me—here I am. Now what? Are you gonna join my band of merry men?” he winked.

76 arched an eyebrow, almost flabbergasted by how off he was about the blonde’s personality. “How about I hang around a little while and make a decision later. We only just met.”

“Right, right. I should be gentle on our first date. I get it."

Hancock burst in to laughter when the synth’s cheeks tinged a lovely shade of pink. “He’s great, ain’t ‘e? A man after my own heart.”

“So,” Nate glanced between Hancock and 76, his energy dropping from friendly to serious even though he still wore a playful little smirk, “is this guy good? I mean, for our trip.”

“He’s a Tourist,” Hancock clarified, smart enough not to say ‘Railroad’ so close to the location in question. “You can trust ‘im. Jackie’s boring but he ain’t a snitch, and he helps out a lot’f good folks. He’s good in my books. Wish he’d try some chems, though. Might take some’f his edge off.”

“Fat chance, Hancock,” 76 rolled his eyes but chuckled to keep the conversation light. “Chems don’t affect me like most people.”

The mayor flashed a white, toothy grin. “They said the same thing about ‘em effectin’ ghouls, too, but I manage it. You just need tuh have a bit’f faith, my dude.”

Jesse cackled and gave a playful slap upside 76’s head before stepping back to give him some space. “I’m glad y’r with us, Commander. I missed yuh.”

“Jack is fine. And…I’m glad to see you, too, Jesse. I really thought you were dead after Reyes came back.”

“Reyes…” Jesse’s grin faded, replaced by a pained expression. 76 would have sworn that he saw Hanzo’s lips hook in to a deeper scowl than he already wore. “I know ‘e sorta fell apart there at the end…but damn it, I still miss ‘im…”

“Me too,” 76 murmured quietly. Jesse didn’t need to know about Reaper. It wouldn’t do anything to give him Gabriel back. At least, not the Gabe that Jesse had once known. “I’m sorry, Jesse. I know that you loved him.”

“So did you.” The men permitted a moment of silence before Jesse broke it with an awkward laugh in attempt to redirect the energy in to something positive. “Well, we should get our happy li’l caravan a’movin’ before we get caught with our pants down.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Hancock cackled. “Not without drinks first, anyways. Com’on. I’ll lead the rest of the way.”

76 watched Nate nod and give a final sweep of the building while Hancock led them towards a hidden stairwell, Jesse and Hanzo close behind. Once Nate was sure they’d all moved ahead, he followed suit, bringing up the back—protecting them.

Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy, after all.

 

Hancock and Jack took lead, guiding the other three men through the underground passages while Nate kept his eye out for anyone coming up from behind. The church was apparently sitting above an old-world crypt, and the cool and black underbelly of brick and dirt felt like dried-up veins of some greater monster splayed under the earth. It was dreary and damp underground, but at least it was a little warmer than the freezing December air in what was left of Boston, and the few feral ghouls they encountered around the corners were moving sluggish in the cold, likely having come below to hide from the unforgiving bite of winter. It was no chore to put them down, as they lacked even the energy to rush them. Hanzo made quick and silent work of them; Jesse didn’t even bother to raise his pistol, keeping himself preoccupied with studying the decaying skeletons tucked against blocked and caved-in corners.

“Here,” Hancock paused where a low-oiled lantern dimly lit a metal plaque on the wall, a round sign with a ring of words encircling it: “The * Freedom * Trail * Boston”, and a red arrow painted on the brass. This was what all of the letters he’d been collecting along the rail were for.

Hanzo moved to study another white lamp painted against a crypt marker on the wall. “Is this meant to be some sort of code?” 

“Railroad. The letters we found on the trial spelled out 'railroad',” Jesse finished while Nate approached to study the sign.

Nate glanced at a red wire leading to the plaque, gently running his thin fingers along the line and studying how it vanished through the wall. “Looks like a key.” Neither Hancock or their new friend lent advice or hand, allowing Nate to figure out for himself how the outer ring of text slid. Trial and error and general intuition guided him, and Nate began to turn the ring and pressed the center, like some sort of odd telephone number. He spelled the word out and pressed the center icon a final time, uncertain what might happen but prepared for what came, hand itching to grab his rifle if necessary. The gunslinger and archer tensed when the wall shook and pulled away, dirt and rubble crumbling and settling at their feet as though the gears hadn’t moved in centuries. Nate didn’t flinch, nor did he hesitate to pass through the exposed chamber leading the way for his group. He did, however, curse when a white-hot light blanched the dark, blinding his sensitive eyes and making them tear at the corners.

“Stop right there.”

The general lifted a hand to try and block some of the light, squinting for a better look at the owner of the voice. Once his eyes had adjusted enough, three forms came in to view. They were standing on raised platform, not but a yard or so high, a floodlight lighting up the small room from the corner close to where some brick stairs led to the dirt floor. A dark-skinned and white-haired woman wielded a mini-gun aimed right at him, though it was more for intimidation than an actual threat—for now. To the far right, beside the lamp, was a man wearing what resembled a newsboy’s set of clothing, a strange choice, and he was armed with a meager pistol. In the center was a middle-aged red-head, unarmed but obviously the one in charge with the way she held her shoulders and back straight. She was the one speaking to him, directly to Nate, because she could tell that he too was the one in charge of his own group, not that it was a position he’d asked to have. Still, he was accountable for Jesse and Hanzo’s well-being and he wasn’t about to let this woman and her lackeys intimidate him or make him look weak. Hanzo was always watching, and Nate had to be a good example.

“You went through a great effort to arrange this meeting,” the woman continued. “But before we go any further, answer my questions. Who the hell are you?”

Nate didn’t draw his weapon; if he did, Hanzo wouldn't hesitate to go on the offense. He could feel the archer’s dark eyes pressing against his neck, watching and waiting for guidance on how to approach the situation. “We aren’t here to cause any problems. I’d be glad to talk, but seeing as how we came all this way to meet you, why don’t you tell us who you are first?”

“Very well. In a world full of suspicion, treachery and hunters, we are the are the synths’ only friends." A little self-important, but she seemed honest enough about it. "Now then, stranger, answer my question. Who are you?”

“My friends and I followed the Freedom Trail looking to meet the Railroad. We’re not your enemy.”

“Oh? Did you? Well, if that’s true, then you have nothing to fear. Who told you about us? About how to find us?”

“My buddy Lúcio in Goodneighbor hinted that you might be able to help me find my son, Shaun. I’m in genuine need of help and anything you could do would be appreicated.”

“Lúcio? I see. Hm.” The woman motioned with her hand the her guards lowered their weapons, the man with more ease of comfort than the trigger-happy woman to the left, who kept her black eyes on Nate. “In that case, I’m Desdemona, leader of the Railroad. And you are?” She turned her head when another man entered the room, his lean silhouette forming from the dark tunnels the group were protecting. He had short black hair and wore dirty jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt—nothing that set him out as particularly special. He was wearing aviators…underground. What the hell was up with this guy? “Deacon,” she greeted. “Where have you been?”

“Hey! Looks like you’re having a party,” he smiled.

“I need intel. Do you know any of these men?”

“Wow!” Deacon exclaimed sarcastically. “Newsflash, boss, blondie’s sort’f a big deal above ground. His name is Nathaniel Sole Washington, a genuine old-world super-soldier that’s from a vault. Came back to life from being a popsicle and everything. He's legit.”

Nate arched an eyebrow, squinting further through the light to focus on this ‘Deacon’ character—an alias, no doubt. He looked…familiar. Shit. Nate’s damaged brain began to mechanically organize all of his recent memories and scanned through them, flashing images matching the man in his head. Diamond City, Bunker Hill and Goodneighbor…he’d seen this guy several times, always in a different get-up and always making a point to not interact with them but watching on the sidelines. Fuck. Nate kicked himself in the ass for not realizing sooner that he’d been followed, a little more than mildly embarrassed that this guy had pulled it off with such ease. He'd been distracted but there was no excuse. “Do we know each other?” he feigned ignorance to hide his mounding annoyance.

“I don’t need to meet you to hear about you,” the stranger lied well enough to fool most but not Nate, still wearing that shit-eating grin of his. “You’ve made waves, pal. The Railroad owes you a crate, hell a _truck-load_ , of Nuka-Cola for what you did to Kellogg. He was our public enemy number-one and you dropped that guy like he was nothing. Badass.”

The red-head arched a brow. “So...you’re vouching for him, then?”

“Hell yeah, I am. Trust me, boss, he’s someone we want on our side. He’s been helping people out all around the Commonwealth. Take my word for it, Natie’s well-worth our time and he can be trusted. And his cowboy buddy here even ran around offin’ druglords and murderers as a little thing called the Silver Shroud? Maybe you’ve heard’f ‘im? As for the archer, well not many people _haven’t_ heard of the self-exiled Overseer-turned-merc. He’s been helpin’ people out with golden-boy here. I daresay putting his life on the line day in and day out for a bunch of helpless strangers qualifies him for our line of work.”

“Well, if Deacon approves, I really can’t make much of an argument against any of your reliability. Welcome to the Railroad, gentlemen,” Desdemona greeted. “What exactly does Lúcio believe that we can do to assist you? We’re in no place to help people right now, and our focus is protecting and saving synths, not humans.”

“I have reason to believe that the Institute was behind my son’s kidnapping. He’s just a baby,” Nate explained. “Lúcio said that you guys might have some intel or guidance that could help me. I have a lead that’s got me heading to the Glowing Sea but I’m not prepared just yet to head that way. I have some things to do before I’m ready for something like that. But I’ve also heard about your group for a while and was interested in lending a hand, if at all possible.”

“I see… Well, you’re certainly welcome to support our cause, and I am more than grateful for your interest. However, we’re currently dealing with difficult circumstances that will make our mandatory training difficult, so you may only join as a Tourist.”

“TOURISTS?” Deacon snorted. “Des, you can’t be freaking serious! That’s a complete waste of these guys’ talents! Com’on!”

“Deacon, please. We don’t have time to train them properly. Perhaps in time, but they must prove themselves first. Once they’ve managed that, I’ll consider allotting the appropriate agents and time to train them, but we must be cautious where and when to use our resources for now. It’s nothing personal,” she assured, glancing at Nate.

“We understand,” the blonde assured.

“Bullshit! Com’on, Des! You’re makin’ me look bad in front’f the newbs!”

“In the meantime, I give you my word that I’ll do whatever I can to assist you in locating your son,” Desdemona continued right over the spy’s groans. “You’re not alone in having a family member stolen, but this is the first time I’ve ever heard of them stooping so low as to kidnap a baby. You killed Kellogg, and for that I will absolutely give you my word that we’re going to help you. You’ve done every synth in the Commonwealth a favor putting that monster in the ground.”

“Thanks,” Nate smiled a bit awkwardly, trying and probably failing to mask his remorse. Kellogg was dead, and it had to happen, but he still didn’t feel any better about it. Nate couldn’t say he wouldn’t have fallen down a similar path in his situation. The mercenary’s family had been murdered just to spite him—a young wife and his daughter…a fucking _toddler_. Nora was dead and if Shaun was too, Nate would fall apart no worse than Kellogg had. The only thing keeping him in-check was a crew of friends that he didn’t deserve. “I appreciate your help and I’d like to assist your group in any way I can. I don’t really need genocide to be added to the list of reasons this new world’s fucked up. The way I see it, synths aren’t any different from normal people. They don’t deserve to be hunted down and enslaved or killed just because they’re somehow different in some way.”

“I was saved by a synth once,” Jesse piped in. “He didn’t have to help me but he dragged me right out’f hell itself. Risked his own neck more than once to feed me and give me a roof over my head, and treated my wounds. He’s been nothing but a positive in my life and I’d like kindly to return the favor best I can.”

“People are people,” Hanzo grumbled. “We are all the same in the end. Everyone bleeds and suffers and dies. I don’t see what the big deal is about, one way or the other.” Way to keep things positive, Han.

“That’s good to hear. Thank you, and welcome to the Railroad,” Desdemona smirked before looking startled when Jack and Hancock stepped out from behind them to make their presence known. “76? You’ve been here this whole time?”

“Evening, Des,” he saluted. “Hancock and I kept an eye on these guys. We wanted to make sure things went smoothly. Looks like it all worked out.”

“I see. Well, in that case, I would appreciate a report.” Desdemona turned and vanished deeper in to the tunnels, the paper-boy following closely behind.

“Right.” The blonde glanced at Nate, locking eyes in a silent “ _Be right back_ ” and then chased after her.

Nate hadn’t yet decided how to feel about Jack, aka ‘76’. Jesse vouched for him, and the guy generally had one of the best instincts about people that Nate had ever come across, so that certainly game Jack merit, but there was just something…off…about him. Nate couldn’t put his finger on what it was, exactly, but his gut warned him that Jack was hiding something. It wasn’t enough that Nate would outright be paranoid that he was looking to turn on them—it actually didn’t seem to be in Jack’s character—but there was definitely enough there for him to at least be wary of the man.

Jack definitely had an interest in Nate, that much was quite clear, but Nate didn’t really buy that it was just because of hearsay that Jack wanted to meet him. What exactly was it that compelled the merc to hunt him down, and then to stalk him? Nate didn’t know, but he was going to find out.

To make things even weirder, there was the fact of their resemblance. They weren’t twins, but damn. Jack looked so much like he could be related to his brother that it almost hurt to look at him.

Aaron had been assigned to a different troop than Nate and had died early in the war when Nate was still rotting away in the hospital. The fact that he hadn’t been able to attend his own brother’s funeral haunted him. Nora had gone in his place and had given a speech, since Nate was still not even in the right frame of mind to do it himself. His memories were still scattered, most of them charred and burned away and lost forever, but he could clearly recall Nora at his bedside telling him about Aaron’s death. He could remember the numbed pain at the news but no tears. He’d felt…nothing. He remembered knowing that he should be upset over it but that the death of someone so dear to him had rung hollow in his chilled guts, only coming back in a frothing vat of emotional acid after the snowfall had finally thinned enough for him to plow his way through it. Even now, the snow and ice cluttered Nate’s chest, making it a chore to feel much of anything besides the most passionate of emotions, but he clung to each and every feeling and emboldened them to keep his soul from being reburied.

He didn’t want to go back there, even if the cold was comforting in its automated white oblivion.

Nora had hated it when he was like that.

“Sorry about Des.”

Nate turned his eyes back at Deacon and offered a reassuring smile, though he was sure that the spy could read it as fake. Deacon was the type of person that Nate would have been paired to work with during his time with the Foxes, and it both pleased and unnerved him. “There’s no reason to apologize. It sounds as though your group’s seen some trouble recently. Is it anything that I could help with?”

“Actually, I was just about to bring that up,” Deacon smiled widely, over exaggerating his own enthusiasm. Even though Nate could tell that the man was being genuine about that much, everything Deacon said and did, every movement, every shift of tone in his voice read as dishonest and sarcastic. Nate was fine with it because it made him easy to read but could tell that it greatly irritated Hanzo, who was quietly glowering at the spy and probably calculating how many arrows it would take to nail the poor guy to a concrete wall. “See, we used to have this totally ballin’ HQ underneath an old coffee joint. We called it Switchboard, and we operated out of there for a good while. Had lots of space and tech and all sorts of cool gadgets; the whole nine-yards of super-spy goodness. But the Institute caught on and raided it. We lost a lot of good people. It was a hard hit to our operations, and it’s why we’re currently sleeping with literal skeletons, trying to keep off their radar.”

“I see. So that’s why you’re low on manpower,” Nate frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks, but people know what they’re signing up for when they come to us,” Deacon shrugged. The action could easily be taken as being apathetic, but Nate could tell that he sincerely cared for his coworkers. He was a man who’d undoubtedly seen and experienced and survived many such raids. “You don’t generally live a long time working with the Railroad, with a few exceptions. But yeah, it hurt us—big time. And the Institute knows it. They’re getting braver and more aggressive with each of their attacks. Probably won’t be long before they find us again and the cycle continues.”

“So what do you have in mind to do about it?”

“In the long-run? Honestly? No freakin’ clue. Just keep on treckin’. Don’t let those assholes see they got to you. Don’t fear them. Keep doing what we’re doing, damn the costs, damn the risks. But in the short-run? Well, Jackie and I have been talking, and we want to go back to Switchboard.”

“It would be a fool’s errand to set up camp where these people know you have been in the past,” Hanzo grunted.

“No, no. Not to set back up. Yeah, that would be suicide. No, see, we left some stuff back there and we’d really benefit from going and getting it. Key intel, y’know? But the place is still swarming with Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths, actual-factual robots that just point and shoot at anyone down there. If we snuck in there and grabbed that intel, Des would have virtually no choice but to make you actual agents. It’s stupid to waste any of you as Tourists. I mean, if that’s what you’re in to, sure, by all means, but I have this feeling that at least some’f you aren’t the half-assed sort’f guys.”

“I have no interest in joining this Railroad nonsense,” Hanzo grumbled and looked at Nate. “Do we really have time for this?”

“I’m in,” Nate decided.

“FOX. We cannot pick up every cause we come across!”

He smiled down at the smaller man, chuckling even though Hanzo was scowling heatedly. “Han, come on. These people need help.”

“ _Everyone_ needs help!”

“Well then we’ll help everyone.” Hanzo snorted angrily and turned away but Nate only nodded back at Deacon before looking expectantly at Jesse. “I’m in,” he repeated. “What about you, Jes?”

“Me too,” Jesse nodded and lit another of his fat cigars. “I’ve long been interested in helpin’ these synth folk out. Might sleep better knowin’ I’m doin’ some good in the world.”

"Hell, I'm free," Hancock nodded. "Could use a distraction from all the damn paperwork back home for a while."

“Great!” Deacon smiled and gave a thumbs up. “Jackie'll come with us, too. The guy’s a hell of a shot. A little quiet and sort of stiff, but you grow to like him.”

“Sounds like Hanzo,” Jesse commented, grinning in to his cigar when the archer hissed like an angry cat.

Deacon arched an eyebrow and looked between them before motioning with a hand. “You two fucking?”

“WHAT? NO!” Hanzo barked, and Nate couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of the red flush on his friend’s face. “DON’T BE RIDICULOUS!”

“Hey, now,” Jesse droned, putting a hand to his chest. “There’s no reason to be cruel, archer. I’m a gentle lover and a sensitive soul. Don’t be bruisin’ my heart like that.”

“Watashi wa anata ni taisho dekimasen.”

“Watashi wa nihongo o hanasu koto o shitte imasu,” Jesse winked.

“You are absolutely unbearable…”

The cowboy smiled and tipped his hat, but the annoyed archer made his way back to Nate’s side. They were a strange pair, always arguing and acting like they might actually break out in to a fight, but Jesse was patient and Hanzo seemed to be warming up to him, at least. Maybe Deacon would redirect some of Hanzo’s hostile energy and give the pair room to get along.

“You comin’, archer?” Jesse purred. "I'd honestly prefer it if you hung back, injured as you are, but I know you better than that by now."

Hanzo grunted in annoyance and refused to look at him, folding his solid arms across his chest. “I cannot very easily say no, if both of you insist on going. You would be dead if it were not for me guarding your backs. And I am fine. Stop exaggerating my condition.”

“All right, all right... You’re certainly good at playing defense with that bow of yours, I’ll give you that,” Jesse winked. “But I’d like to see you try a gun someday.”

“There is no gun that I would not surpass you with, cowboy.”

“Oh, no?” Jesse sniggered. “Is that a challenge? ‘Cause I might just take you up on that.”

Deacon pursed his lips. “You’re SURE you’re not fucking? Like, seriously?”

“Say it again, spy, and I shall put an arrow through your tongue.”

“He really means it,” Nate cautioned, still chuckling with an amused Hancock.

“Natie said the same thing t’me when I joined up,” Jesse smirked at the smiling Deacon. “I can vouch that ‘e means it, too. Hanzo’s got some firecrackers in his britches.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Deacon apologized, raising his hands while still offering a cynical smile that Nate knew was putting his archer on-edge. “Didn’t mean to step on your tiny feet, my man. Just making some observations about the tension foggin’-up the airspace.”

Nate put a hand across his friend’s chest when Hanzo threatened to lunge. “Relax, Han. He’s just messing with you.”

“You fucking with the little guy, D?” the white-haired woman teased and moved to stand beside him, shooting him a humored but warning grin. She folded her arms and flicked her dark eyes at them, smirking but carrying a threatening little glint in that dark gaze. She was trying to get Hanzo to back off by passive-aggressive posing, depending on the weight of her presence and the size of the minigun she’d been brandishing to make him back off, but Nate knew him well enough that it was only going to agitate things further. Hanzo wasn’t the social sort and he wasn’t particularly gifted or willing to even bother pretending to be good with most people.

But before he could try and de-escalate the situation, Deacon waved a hand and did it himself, “I don’t need you to babysit me, Glory. I wear big-boy underwear and everything. Sorry,” he dropped most of his sarcastic body language. “I’m sort of a sarcastic shithead, so you gotta show a guy some undeserved patience. I’m not used to playing well with others. I usually run ops alone.”

Hanzo snorted but gave a small nod and Nate exhaled a quiet breath of relief. At least this Deacon guy seemed to know when enough was enough. “I am uncomfortable with groups,” he admitted, “and I do not trust others to pull their weight. How do we know that you’re not going to get us killed?”

“Aw… You worryin’ about me now, archer?” Jesse smiled dumbly. "That's mighty kind'f you."

“Shut up."

Deacon had enough self-control to swallow another remark about their adorable bickering. “I gain nothing by getting any’f you prospects picked off. I’m a jerk, sure, but I’m damn serious about the work we do here, and everyone counts. I’ll protect your back.”

Nate believed him and after a short moment of irritated consideration, Hanzo finally decided that he did, too. “Fine. But betray us and know that I shall not hesitate to kill you.”

“That’s _totally_ fair, mi compadre. You comin’, Glory?”

“Pfft! Hell no! We Heavies have got better shit to do than sneak around an old base like molerats.”

“Hey! Don’t be steppin’ on my dick in front’f the guys, Glory, come on.”

“I’m escorting a couple packages today and tomorrow. Got a synth coming downtown to meet with Highrise for an interview. I’ll let you know if I need any backup or whatever.” She leered at the trio, not sold on them like Deacon seemed to be. “Be careful. If Des finds out what you’re up to, there’ll be hell to pay,” she grumbled.

“You’re not coming?”

The group turned their eyes towards Jack, whom was coming back in to the room after his chat with their leader. With the floodlamps beaming on him, Jack’s golden hair and pale skin shimmered like a neon sun, and Nate wondered if he looked as deceptively angelic as that sometimes. He wasn’t Nate’s type, but he was beautiful.

The soldier’s considerate gaze must have been lingering because he got a little nudge to the ribs from a smirking Jesse, who proceeded to smile and waggle his eyebrows. Nate laughed softly and shrugged as the angel descended his stone stairway to join them on the dirt floor below.

Glory’s demeanor changed when she saw Jack, and Nate could feel her walls drop. They were friends. They had history. And maybe she liked him a little? He couldn’t say for sure, but she looked at the blonde with admiration and something else that Nate couldn’t place. “Can’t this time. Got work.”

“Glory’s not much one for sneaking,” Jack chuckled, directing his bright eyes at the prospective agents. “It’s why we don’t work together as often as we’d like.”

“That and you refuse to officially join,” she rolled her eyes.

“Hey, I help out,” Jack insisted. “Just in my own way—in the back and on the sidelines. You know that I don’t care for direct oversight. I got enough of that trash for two lives.”

“You’re seriously going to Switchboard with these nerds?”

“Nerds? I mean, I don’t know. They seem pretty dependable to me,” he shrugged. “You had to have heard of these guys before—especially Washington. He’s practically become a legend overnight. He might be almost as good a shot as I am.”

“Almost?” Nate smirked, eyes glimmering at the challenge.

Jack looked right at him, stunning blue eyes shining in the dim light below the beam of the floodlamp. “Almost.”

Nate fidgeted in place, energy building excitedly in his guts. “You’re on.”

“Men are so lame,” Glory sighed. “Just be careful, 76. The Institute’s got the place on lock-down and we don’t know if there are any Coursers there.”

“I’ve killed plenty of Coursers before, Glory. This isn’t that big of a deal.”

“It is if they’re expecting us to show up, you idiot,” she hissed. “If someone’s got your recall code, they could screw you. You’ve gotten lucky in the past, 76, but someday it could screw you, being as big and obvious a target as you are. The Institute doesn't like letting us go so easily.”

The anxiety gripping Jack’s figure was immediate with the way his jaw clenched and his eyes twitched at their corners. Nate studied him very carefully, working his mind to attempt to massage whatever secrets were in the convoluted warning that he clearly didn’t understand, but before he could match anything up, Jesse shocked both him and Hanzo by almost body-slamming in to Jack, shoving him against the crumbling brick wall.  “YOU’RE A SYNTH?!”

In an instant Hanzo’s bow was drawn and Glory had somehow materialized her enormous minigun, aiming it at  Jesse while Hanzo snarled in furious Japanese that if she touched him, she’d be _“consumed”._ Fucking Christ, this was dangerously close to getting out of hand. If Hanzo pulled out his dragons, no one was going to be able to stop a total bloodbath.

Deacon was standing on the sidelines, no weapons drawn, no expression of value on his pale face. Just…watching. Waiting. He wanted to see what Nate was going to do. Meanwhile, Hancock was glancing between them all, looking about as nervous as Nate felt. It was beginning to look like he was on his own to get the situation under control.

Challenge accepted.

"Whoa, whoa!” Nate put a hand on Jesse’s shoulder, arranging himself so that he was standing between the gunslinger and the white-haired Railroad operative. Hanzo wouldn’t dare shoot him, but the air was rapidly charging with the energy of his dragons. No one threatened their pets and got away with it. “Jesse, calm down. Everyone calm the _hell_ down.”

“He’s a SYNTH!” Jesse snarled, shoving Jack higher up the wall. Jack for his part wasn’t even struggling. His gloves were around Jesse’s wrists and Nate got a suspicion that he could break them if he wanted to but he didn’t. He was holding back; allowing Jesse’s attack. “You dirty LAIR! How long have you been a synth?! HOW LONG!”

“I’m sorry, Jesse,” he wheezed.

“WE TRUSTED YOU, GOD DAMN IT!”

“Jesse,” Nate pressed. “You’re not going to make any friends here freaking out. Put him down and talk to me. Why do you think Jack is a synth and why does it matter?”

“It MATTERS ‘cause he wasn’t no synth back in Blackwatch! And if ‘e was, he replaced Commander Morrison!”

Nate flit his eyes towards Glory, who was frowning fiercely. “Well? Is it true? Is he a synth?”

Jack pled at her with his glossy eyes but Nate saw the fight die in them. “It’s true,” he admitted before she could rat him out. “I replaced Jack Morrison at Blackwatch. He died in the Capital Wastelands. The Institute sent me to spy on the Gunners. I lied to you about my identity, Jesse. I lied. I lied and I’m sorry. But I swear that I didn’t hurt any of you on behalf of those psychopaths! Please! Let me talk. Let me tell you the truth. Please.”

Jesse snarled a venomous sound and dropped Jack to the floor, turning away and lighting another cigar. “Talk.” Nate had never witnessed his friend act more like someone in his old team and it was deeply concerning. Seeing Jesse doing anything but grinning and amicably teasing someone over something stupid or trivial was…uncomfortable. It suddenly occurred to him that Jesse McCree was dangerous when he wanted to be; not too unlike himself.

Jack didn’t bother to stand, though Glory moved to squat beside him, fussing over his neck some. He weakly swatted her away and sighed, running a hand through that bright golden hair. “I was a clone,” Jack started quietly. “I was made to replace Jack in the Gunner territories and be a spy. The Institute wanted me to provide the sort of information you’d expect and to run errands above ground that they couldn’t do on their own. So they sent me back to Blackwatch. After Blackwatch fell apart, I was sent above ground and I worked as a Courser for a time, hunting my own kind as well as Railroad agents. But it got to me. I felt guilt. Lots of guilt. And I couldn’t do it anymore, so…I ran. I’ve been running ever since. I've been trying to make up for my sins for the last two decades.”

Jesse smoked a long drag from his cigar, Hanzo watching him silently, bow lowered but hands ready to finish what he’d already threatened to start. They might not get along but they were something like friends, and Hanzo was viciously protective, like some sort of lightning-charged sentinel. “So all that time you weren’t the real Jack? You were a dirty spy? Manipulatin’ us? Shit… I suspected… You were so…different… Too…happy… And then Tom… He warned me. He said things weren’t what I thought they were. I thought maybe…maybe he meant you. But I was really hopin’ not. I didn’t want to have to kill you, ‘cause I liked the new you. Well…looks like I fucked it all up.” He turned his eyes, glowering over his red serape to shoot a heated glance at the nervous blonde still crumpled on the ground. “You tell me, _Jack_ ,” he spit, “you tell me this, and you be honest, or so help me I’ll gut you like a pig: did you make Reyes in to that…that thing? Was it you?”

“No!” Jack defended, voice cracking like a broken child’s. “Jesse, I did everything I could to protect him from them, I fucking swear it! He was dying! He was sick! I…I wanted to save him… But I couldn’t even do that.” Jack’s head hung to his chest and Nate could feel Hanzo’s guard lowering. Jack, or whatever he was, wasn’t a threat to them or to Jesse. He was a miserable creature, something Nate had heard wasn’t terribly uncommon a treat of most synths. “I…I’m sorry, Jesse… I failed… I failed you. I failed Reyes. I failed Blackwatch. But I didn’t kill Reyes and I didn’t make him a monster. I admit that I was the Institute’s pawn and I admit to giving them Blackwatch and Gunner secrets, yes, but I didn’t do anything to purposefully hurt Gabe. I’m nothing but a sorry copy of Jack Morrison but I feel everything he felt, Jesse. I remember everything he said and did. I picked up where he left off. I loved Gabriel. I swear I loved him.”

Jesse stared at him for a long and silent minute before the heat died in his eyes and he turned them away again. “I believe you,” he grumbled. “Fuck… Fuck, fuck, fuck… Why didn’t you just tell me? Why did you have to hide it?” He turned to face his old Commander, the anger replaced with uncertainty and heartache that melded in to visual frustration. “You could’ve told me. I wouldn’t have told Reyes. Not after Tom.”

“Jesse…you’re not so great at forgiving people you’ve felt betrayed you,” Jack chuckled and wiped his running nose. “You were so devoted to Gabriel, I couldn’t trust you not to tell him. Then he’d have killed me.”

“NO! Gabe loved you. Fake Jack or not. Deserving or not. He loved you more than anyone.”

“Jesse, don’t be naive. Gabriel was out of control. Trust me, if he didn’t kill me, he’d have made me wish I were dead.”

“Do we kill him?” For once, Hanzo was looked at Jesse for an answer rather than Nate.

The cowboy laughed, the sound half-empty but not without genuine amusement behind it, and shook his head, tipping his hat low to hide the pain in his eyes. “Naa… I don’t think so... But thank you for the offer, archer.”

Hanzo only grunted and leaned his head back in response, but they both knew that was as good as an “ _anytime_ ” that they’d get out of him. He turned his eyes back towards Nate. “I do not trust this Jack man. If he lied to his coworkers and peers, what is to keep him from lying to us?”

“He’s not a liar just because he’s a synth, you damn racist asshole,” Glory spat, standing back up to her full height to grit her teeth at Hanzo.

“I do not recall mentioning anything about him being untrustworthy because he was a synth,” Hanzo snapped back. “He is untrustworthy because he is a _liar.”_

“Hanzo, stop,” Nate sighed. “I think that it’s up to Jesse whether or not he works with us. Jesse? What do you think? Do you want us to walk away? Because I’m ready to walk if you want to. It’s your call.”

“No reason to be so hasty just because of one guy,” Deacon pled from the sidelines, but Nate lifted a hand to shut him up and the spy froze in place.

“Well?”

Jesse puffed another deep breath of smoke and sighed it in to the stuffy underground air. “I can’t trust ‘im. Not right now. I… Shit… I just find out that Jack’s alive, only to be told he ain’t and he was actually a fake guy all that time. I think I need some time off, boss. I’m headin’ back to Sanctuary. I’ll catch up to the good doctors and escort ‘em the rest’f the way. Get my head cleared up.”

“Alone?” Hanzo frowned disapprovingly.

Jesse lifted his eyes to arch an eyebrow at him. “Yeah? In case you didn’t know already, I’ve been wandering alone for some time, archer. It ain’t anything new to me to do it again for a few days.”

“Yes, perhaps, and look where it got you. Fox and I had to save your sorry hide from a bunch of inexperienced thugs. You will not go alone.” Hanzo looked back at Nate, who was more than a little surprised at the sudden change of attitude. It was the first time since they’d crossed paths that Hanzo willingly followed anyone else. “I shall accompany the stubborn cowboy to Sanctuary. Be careful in whom you invest your trust, Fox,” he warned, making a point to look between the Railroad operatives.

“All right. Keep your radios on,” Nate nodded and tipped his hat towards McCree. “I’ll see you two in a few days. Be sure to check in with Preston as soon as you can.”

“Right,” Jesse exhaled. With one final, lingering glance at Jack, Jesse turned, serape billowing behind him as he made his exit in to the tunnels to return to Boston, Hanzo on his heels like a fuming guard-dog.

“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I think that went great,” Deacon smiled.

“Oh, shut up,” Glory growled before jogging up the stairs and heading in to their temporary headquarters.

Nate approached Jack and offered a hand. “You probably should have told us when we met back there,” he smiled. “Jesse’s a little…sensitive.”

“Yeah,” Jack sighed and took the hand to stand up. He weighed more than Nate guessed he would, being so lean, but he betrayed no effort in his assistance. “I just…I didn’t know how to bring it up. Sort of awkward.”

“Well, pretty much anything would have been better than that.”

Jack grunted and looked at him warily. “But you trust me?”

“Hancock trusts you,” Nate shrugged and lit a cigarette, offering the blonde one, which he accepted.

“Jackie’s a synth but he’s no traitor,” Hancock vouched. “All’f that Institute nonsense is just in the past. Not everyone can decide how they come in to this shitty world.”

“I don’t blame Jesse for hating me,” Jack frowned, twiddling the cigarette between his long fingers and watching the fire flicker and smoke, blue eyes distant. “I lied to him. He has every right to distrust me. But what happened to Gabe…I…it wasn’t me. I… It’s…complicated…”

“Gabriel Reyes was Jesse’s old commander, right? The one he reported to. He’s mentioned the name once or twice, always fondly.”

“Gabe was basically his dad. He picked Jesse up from a gang when he was just a kid. I— _Jack_ didn’t think that he’d amount to anything, but Jesse proved himself to be invaluable. Gabe loved him. But Jack left and then Gabriel got sick. Things…changed.”

Nate ran his eyes across the synth’s face and figure, studying him for any signs of dishonesty. “You’re hiding something,” he accused, and Jack looked up at him with anxiety flowering in those pretty cerulean eyes of his, much lighter than Nate’s own. If Jack’s eyes resembled a clear summer sky, Nate supposed his were more like the depths of a cruel ocean. “Something big. Something important. You want to tell me what that something is before we have another blowout? I can’t promise that Hanzo won’t kill you if you do something like that again. If you think Jesse’s got it out for liars, you don’t know shit.”

Jack looked away again, going quiet and chewing his chapped lip. “Gabriel is alive. He’s alive and Jesse can’t know about it, because it would destroy him.”

Nate moved a step closer, lowering his voice. “And why is that?”

“It’s…a long story…”

“Well you’re lucky, because I’m willing to set aside the time to listen.”

“You’re not going to believe me,” Jack laughed humorously and ran his gloves over his face, smearing the wet streaks on his face with dirt. “It’s insane.”

Nate leaned in. “I have stories about meeting actual dragons,” he murmured. “Try me.”

“Dragons? What the hell?”

“You first. That’s the rule.”

Jack laughed again and shook his head, leaning back to stare up at the dirt ceiling. “Okay. Yeah. I guess I can tell you.”

“Sit.” Nate motioned at the brick stairs and sat down, setting his rifles against the side and trying to look as casual and non-threatening as possible. Hancock and Deacon leaned against the wall to make idle chit-chat and give the blonde soldiers some privacy.

Jack cautiously settled beside him, placing his oversized gun beside Nate’s in silent armistice and folding his hands on his lap, eyes still on the dirt floor while he collected his thoughts. “I guess I should just start from the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nate and 76 get some bonding time before Switchboard (which is covered in WCMD) and then head to meet up with the Brotherhood of Steel. I was actually going to try and get them there this chapter but there was a lot of talking so I decided to wait. Next chapter should have a bit more 'action' to it.  
> Here come Danse and Maxson… Hold on to your butts.
> 
> Chapter should go up at the normal time next week. Work’s looking to be a little less than brutal and I’m looking forward to writing Danse xD He might get some POV. It might go up a little early if I get enough done, since F-76 is going to distract me for quite a while...oops.


	22. Shadow of Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nate and 76 learn what being a member of Maxson’s Brotherhood really means.

Nate and 76 spent hours talking on the stone stairwell, which was certainly an uncomfortable position but 76 found himself so invested in their conversation that the synth hardly noticed. 76 told Nate every fine detail of his experiences in the Institute, only leaving out the glaring fact that Nate’s son was in fact the leader of the organization, referring to him only as “the Director”. He hadn’t shared that information with anyone but Deacon, and the spy could at least be depended upon to keep his mouth shut about it until 76 decided they needed to share it with the grieving father. Nate deserved hope to find his son but he wasn’t exactly in the best place to handle such a blow, and so 76 decided to hold the information hostage until it would benefit Nate. He deserved to know…but not yet.

The soldier informed him about his own experiences, at least what he could remember. Nate suffered from a severe case of memory loss, possibly a side-effect of Vault-Tech’s questionable freezing methods or his SEP trauma coming to bite him, or both. Nate explained how he’d met Hanzo, who’d been protecting the survivors of the Quincy Massacre with the last living Minuteman, Preston Garvey, and how they’d desperately needed backup in Concord. The pair had been together since, and the way that Nate spoke of Hanzo with nothing shy of fondness and how 76 had seen the way the archer studied Nate so carefully, it was clear that they were close friends and that they trusted one another.

Nate was unexpectedly compassionate for someone with his experiences, forgotten or otherwise. He’d even asked 76 what he preferred to be called. “Jack,” he’d decided. “I know that I’m not Jack but… I don’t know… It’s…hard to explain…”

“You _identify_ as Jack,” Nate had said softly, a hand on the synth’s shoulder. “He’s part of you. You know, I don’t always feel like Nathaniel Washington, if I’m being honest. It’s like I’m a body-snatcher or something… Like the serum killed him and I took his place, and I’m just pretending to be this other guy. But I’m not. I’m still Nate. It’s odd…but…I get it. I’m Nate, and you’re Jack.”

Shit. 76 hadn’t been prepared to meet someone that could so effortlessly pinpoint his insecurities.

For someone who claimed to feel almost nothing, Nate exuded a sense of absolute acceptance and gentility, radiating affection and comfort like a quiet star.

It was clear why Ana and Angela had decided to follow him, and how Nate attracted people to him and his causes. He really was…special, as trite as it sounded, and 76 already made the decision—he was going to follow Nate, too.

And so he did, covering the soldier’s flanks when they’d returned to Switchboard. Everything went smoothly. Perfectly, even. The four men effortlessly slunk past the Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths posted there, taking time to check the bodies of deceased agents. There were still missing people that Deacon was working to scratch off an ever-growing list. He was the keeper of their names, both real and false, and he remembered each and every person they came across, no matter how burned or mutilated. Deacon was a lying asshole but he treated life with respect, and 76 had come to deeply appreciate and admire the spy over the last decade of working with him on and off.

Switchboard culminated in Deacon offering an expired agent's pistol, called  _Deliverer_ , to Nate, whom accepted it with humble reverence.

Intelligence saved and gear recollected, Deacon led them out of the base, where they dealt with some aggressive Gen-1 synths and a turret before they cleared the area and returned home. Hancock had business back at Goodneighbor to deal with but promised he’d be in contact and graciously accepted the Minuteman radio that Nate offered before the three remaining men headed back to the church  

Deacon blatantly over-exaggerated their exploits, making certain that Desdemona was impressed by Nate’s antics, not that anything needed to be lied about in that regard but it seemed to work.

“You should’ve seen it, Des. I’ve never seen so many tin-cans drop. It was like a sea of aluminum out there.”

“All right, all right,” the woman chuckled. “Enough bragging. Very well. It’s quite apparent that you’re a capable agent and that Deacon is not going to let-up until I’ve brought you on properly. Congratulations, Mr. Washington, and welcome to the Railroad.”

“Thanks,” Nate glew with a genuine smile of gratification. “Happy to help out where I can.”

“First thing’s first: you need a code-name. The work we do will put you and all of your associates in danger, and we need to keep things as neutral and as difficult to track as possible. To that regard, each Railroad agent and heavy receives an alias, which we utilize to send coded messages. This keeps you out of direct fire and makes it more difficult for the Institute to track you down, specifically, and link you back to us or to any family or friends. Most agents don’t know one another’s real name. Obviously, Deacon and I are the exceptions.”

“Makes sense. I guess since Jack had time in the Institute that an alias isn’t terribly beneficial for him.”

“That is correct. Synths that join our cause without changing their identity, such as 76 and Glory, are choosing to do so and know the risks, though many opt for a code-name, regardless. So, what would you like to be called?”

“Goldfox,” he offered. “It was my code-name in SEP. Might as well keep it.”

“The Institute has access to your old-world military files, Nate,” 76 spoke up. “They’ll know any communication is undoubtedly referring to you.”

“That’s fine,” Nate offered a carefree, one-shouldered shrug. “I’m not exactly going to be hiding from them, anyways. Besides, it’s not like they’d be able to capture me and then somehow manage to break my resolve, much less suck the information straight out of my brain—right?” He glanced uncertainly at 76.

“Well, Moira sucked Jack’s memories out of his head, post-death, but the procedure isn’t entirely dependable. The Director claimed that she got lucky with how perfect my mind came out and that they only have one good shot to try that method. It’s probably a last-ditch effort if they can’t get someone to talk. I was never part of the inquiry process with captured people, though, so I’m talking out of my ass. Generally speaking, the SRB’s more interested in neutralizing threats rather than questioning them. At least, that’s how they operated during me time there.”

“Well it doesn’t even matter, in that case,” Nate snorted. “Sounds like any captured agents are a risk to the company as a whole, pain tolerance and psychological fortitude be damned. Do you guys have regulations about that sort of thing? You should have some cyanide on-hand at all times for agents to take in case of capture, to prevent leaking of any secrets.”

Her mouth dropped, expression startled. “N-no,” Desdemona stumbled through her thoughts, caught off-guard by his grim recommendation. “No, we…haven’t established any self-neutralizing procedures.”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea to at least consider. I know it’s not exactly the most comfortable thing to think about, but you have to consider the worst and create appropriate measures. It’s not like the Institute releases Railroad agents if they give up sensitive intelligence. It’s likely sucked out of them if they don’t cooperate, and then they’re murdered. You’d benefit from neutralizing a captured agent before that happens. Though, if they could get it out of a dead man… Hm… You might have to have them ingest something that fries the brain. I’m sure I could come up with a recipe using some sort of chem cocktail. I always had cyanide on me, but that was only one option. There were always situational backups.”

Desdemona was frowning. “The military really trained their soldiers how to kill themselves?”

“We weren’t normal soldiers. We were biologically-enhanced spies and assassins. It was essential to know how to neutralize yourself in case of expected or probable capture. Trust me, the last thing we’d have wanted was to be caught by the Reds without an easy way out.”

“Damn,” Deacon whistled.

Nate gave a tired shrug. “That’s how war works, and war never changes. Not even after two-hundred years.”

“I’ll…consider your recommendations, Agent Goldfox. Thank you for your input. In the meantime, I’m going to request that Deacon accompany you on any Railroad work you undertake. He can assist with your training on a more personal level, and he’s one of our most veteran in the field.”

“Hell yeah,” Deacon smirked. “Party time with the new kid, it is.”

“I’ll be with him, too,” 76 nodded. “I’m not an official agent but I know the ropes.”

“Very well. Goldfox, your first job will be waiting for you whenever you’re prepared to take it. I’m aware that you’re a very busy man and have many people relying on you, so I’m not going to expect you to spend every waking hour devoted to our cause. I do, however, expect you to occasionally run ops and to regularly check in with us, and to at least respond to our summons.”

“Understood,” Nate smiled. “I’ve got a few things to do but I’ll be in contact. And Deacon and Jack are welcome to stay in any of my Minutemen settlements.”

“Sweet. You mean I can crash on one of your moldy mattresses on the dirt?”

“I happen to make proper beds for my settlers. But for you? I think I’ll make sure you get the best dirty sleeping bag on the premises.”

“You sure know how to treat a lady.”

Desdemona rolled her eyes but chuckled. “Have a good evening, boys. And please, Goldfox, you need sleep.”

“You, too?” Nate smiled, not even bothering to hide his exhaustion.

The red-head put her hand on his shoulder, her dark eyes gentle but serious. “We have some beds in the back for you to use. Please sleep, Agent. You’re clearly overworked.”

“Is that an order?” Nate smirked.

“If it has to be.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckled. “I’ll sleep. I promised Hanzo I would try, anyways.”

“Eight hours, Agent.” She jabbed a finger in his face, still grinning. Desdemona was a hardass but she also genuinely cared for her people. They were her family, her children, and now Nate had been adopted. “Eight. Hours. I mean it.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” Nate saluted.

She laughed again and turned away to look over some paperwork set out on the round concrete table set up in the center of the crypt they used as a base, and Nate sighed before turning to shrug at his partners.

“Guess I have to sleep. Do you guys have any sleep aids?”

“Actually, yeah.” 76 dug his hand into a pocket and produced a small, de-labeled mentats tin to hand over. “Our resident drugged-up super-genius worked with the doctor here to make me something special to help me sleep. I have to take four of them, but they do help. You might want to try half that. I don’t know much about your medical requirements, since you’re SEP like I am but we’re from two different generations of the project. Who knows how it’ll effect you.”

The smaller blonde pulled out four and swallowed them dry before handing the tin back. “I’ll take my chances.”

“That bad?”

“I have night terrors—bad ones,” Nate admitted. “I uh…sometimes sleep walk and it can get dangerous for those around me when I’m armed. Is there a back room that I can be locked in?”

Deacon arched an eyebrow. “Wowsa. That blows. But, yeah. I actually have a room to myself that you’re welcome to use.”

“Thanks.”

“No sweat. I don’t need my debut trainee massacring my work-buddies the first night on the job.” Deacon and 76 led him through a back door and followed a long, narrow hall until they reached a private room. It was small and lacked flair, looking like it had been a janitor’s closet before Deacon had taken it over. There was a small bed with acceptably-clean linens and a shelf of basic necessities inside. “Good?”

“Yeah. This is perfect. You can lock it?”

“That I can,” Deacon saluted and Nate smiled, a little shame edging in on his sleepy features.

“Sorry for these measures,” he apologized meekly. “I’m…sort of high-maintenance, I guess…”

“No big deal, my friend. You’ve suffered a lot of crap and have helped us out more than you know. The least I can do is help you get one decent night of sleep in a tiny, locked room a few dozen yards under ground in a crypt. Need me to read you a bedtime story? I got Dr. Suess!”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be all right,” he chuckled. Nate removed his weapons, setting them against the wall, along with his gear until he’d been stripped down to his vault suit. “I can punch my way through the door, so if I do, you’re going to need Jack to stop me.”

Deacon looked at the door and then back at Nate. “The door’s steel?”

“Sure is,” Nate winked and walked into the room. “Goodnight, guys. Wake me by noon.”

“Uh…right,” Deacon blinked. “Sleep tight, newbie.”

“I’ll sleep out here,” 76 motioned at one of the empty mattresses set up against the crumbling bricks of the back hallway. “If anything happens, I’ll be ready. Try and rest, Nate.”

“Thanks, Jack. Goodnight,” Nate smiled again and shut the door to lock it.

Deacon pulled a pencil from his back pocket to mark out December 23rd on the large hand-made calendar against the wall. “G’night, nerds. And happy holidays or whatever. ”

 

“Are you sure about this? You don’t have to come with me. I have to work with these people but you don’t.”

The Cambridge police station was Recon Squad Gladius’ primary fallback point and had been where Nate had his first encounter with the Brotherhood of Steel. The squad was down to three members from at least several, and were very nearly finished off by a hoard of feral ghouls had it not been for Nate, Preston and Hanzo showing up. Nate had already told 76 how he and Hanzo helped their commander, Paladin Danse, get an emergency beacon up so that they could contact the Brotherhood for backup, which had inevitably led to the giant metal blimp entering the Commonwealth.

Danse… Holy shit…

M7-97, aka “Danse”, was alive. And he was here. And he was a _threat_.

Old friends coming to hunt him down was looking to become a recurring theme of 76’s life.

Danse had somehow managed to become a freaking paladin in the Brotherhood’s East Chapter, which was currently led by a young Elder whom loathed anything non-human, particularly synths. Desdemona had brought 76 up-to-date on the situation and things were looking dire. Elder Arthur Maxson had declared war on both the Institute and the Railroad, and was actively seeking out both to neutralize the source of the synths and those that were protecting them.

If the Brotherhood discovered that he was a synth, 76 would be beyond screwed, but he wasn’t terribly concerned about it. There wasn’t any sure-fire way to prove it, after all, at least not without killing him, and that meant the biggest threat to his life was someone merely _accusing_ him of being a synth. Paranoia and hatred were treacherous things, especially when combined with a zealous temperament. He’d be wary of crossing the wrong personality but he wasn’t going to be bullied in to hiding away. Besides, Jack had always been interested in joining the faction and 76 wanted to see what had become of Danse after fourteen years. Nate sold the paladin as a serious soldier, devout as hell, and maybe a bit arrogant but certainly honest and genuine. Curiosity outweighed the risks.

76 chose not to disclose to his new friend that Danse was a synth, at least not yet, primarily because it wasn’t really the other man’s business but also because Nate might decide to _tell_ Danse, which was a risk that 76 wasn’t willing to take. It was just one more secret in the pile, but at least this one wasn’t related directly to the Minutemen General’s interests.

The synth lowered his binoculars and pocketed them. “I’m sure. I need to collect some intel and it’s best to do it from the inside. I already have a foot in the door since I’ve worked with them as a Gunner, and I’m good friends with Paladin Reinhardt. He’ll vouch for me, if your friend doesn’t.”

“I’ll try but Danse has no real reason to listen to me,” Nate tittered. “I think we’re something like friends, though? He regularly radio’d in when I was in the area to ask how I was doing. Kept saying that they had supplies and a bed, if I ever needed one.”

“Ooh… Scandalous,” Deacon waggled his brows.

The pretty young blonde laughed and shook his head, his pale cheeks threatening to pinken. “I don’t think he meant it like that. Danse is crazy-shy and I doubt the guy’s ever been on a date. It’s not like he’s unattractive. He’s just awkward and oblivious to anything that isn’t soldier-related. But what if they find out about your identity, Jack? Isn’t this a bit…dangerous…for you?”

“Of course it’s dangerous, but it’s not easy to sniff out a synth if they know what they’re doing, and this isn’t a game I’m unacquainted with. And even if they do somehow find out, I’ll make sure that you’re in the clear. I won’t drag you down with me.”

Nate rolled his sapphire eyes. “I’m not worried about that, Jack. I’m worried about _you_.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be all right. I want to meet the new elder for myself. You coming, Deacon?”

“Naa, not this time, my dude. I’ve got some errands to run and spy shit to do, but you pretty-boys have a good time without me, eh?” He waggled finger-guns at them and started to saunter out of the city, lighting a cigarette as he went.

“All right,” Nate sighed. “I guess there’s no putting it off any longer. Let’s head that way. And uh…don’t let Danse scare you off with all the scowling, all right? He’s actually an okay guy after he’s calmed down a bit. He’s just all soldier.”

“Relax, Nate. I’ve worked with the Brotherhood before. I know exactly what to expect.”

“Right…” He sighed again and rolled his shoulders, girding himself before beginning the march towards the police station at the bottom of the road.

76 studied the anxious way Nate moved, keeping beside him but a foot behind to allow the smaller blonde to lead the way. “Nervous?”

“A little bit,” Nate admitted on their final approach. “This could easily go south. These guys mean business.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Nate kept his eyes straight forward as they marched in to view of the Brotherhood’s outpost. “It’s not just you that I’m worried about.”

The police station was a hub of energy, alive with the purr of strategically-placed turrets and the static-ridden voices barked through the filters of power armor helmets. A figure in T-51 guarded the door, threatening any unwelcome approach with a laser Gatling-gun. Scribes meandered through the barricaded grounds, many carrying laser rifles or paperwork and chatting casually among st one another. 76 watched a vertibird come in for a landing on the top of the building and blowing dirt and dust across the pavement. One of the scribes yelped when their cap flew off and scrambled to catch it, sending their comrades in to laughter.

A woman in a scribe’s outfit waved her arms in greeting, interrupting a soldier in the strange orange and beige flight-suit style uniform that knights and paladins wore under their power armor. Jack never understood why scribes wore what they wore – a thick, ribbed sweater-like undershirt, typically shades of red or black, cargo pants, and a vest covered in several rows of small pockets that couldn’t possibly be useful to carry much more than screws. Topping off the strange ensemble was a flight-suit-like headpiece that snugged around their faces, and an aviator-style cap. This particular scribe was dressed in a slate-red sweater, which made the sunburns on her oval face stand out a bit. “Nate!” she called. “Hey! We’ve been waiting for you, handsome! Come on up!”

76 flashed him a grin and Nate definitely blushed as they moved past the leering soldiers to approach the concrete stairs. 

“Hey, Haylen,” Nate smiled. “Good to see you. Is Rhys still a bucket of charm?”

“Oh, you know it,” she chuckled. She was petite and had a good air about her, not as tense or judgmental as most of her peers who were watching the blondes like they could implode. “Made another friend, did we?”

“Yeah! Haylen, this is Jack Morrison.”

Her green eyes widened in shock, turning towards 76. “THE Jack Morrison?”

“The only one,” the synth lied and offered a hand, which she shook enthusiastically.

“Wow! Pleased to meet you, sir! Paladins Reinhardt and Pharah talk about you all the time, and with much fondness. I never thought I’d actually get the chance to meet you myself! Welcome to Cambridge, sir!”

“I know I’m old but I’m hardly a sir anymore,” 76 snickered, “but thanks. I’m actually looking to join the ranks. Guess you’d be my superior.”

“Pfft... Hardly. You’re no scribe. Not that you’re not intelligent!” Haylen quickly backpedaled, cheeks rosy with mortification. “I just meant that you’re the more shoot-em-up rather than the let-me-fix-the-terminal type. Uh… Yeah… Sorry…”

“Nothing to apologize for. I can do both, but I guess I’d probably be used to ‘shoot-em-up’ more often than fixing terminals.”

“Well, I think you’d be great with the Brotherhood! I’ll go find Paladin Danse for you both. He’s been super eager for Nate dropping by.” Haylen saluted and abruptly vanished inside.

“She’s sweet,” Nate smiled at his companion. “Watch out for Knight Rhys, though. That guy’s a piece of work. He’s out to kill anything without a human face. Kept trying to get me to run murder-errands for him.”

“He sounds delightful.”

“You don’t know the half of it. It kept everything in me from punching him in his crooked-fucking-nose.”

76 arched an eyebrow at the irritation threatening to inch into Nate’s friendly tone. “Bitter much?”

The soldier dropped his pretty eyes to scowl at the concrete. “He’s just an asshole. Danse stood up for me and made him back off, at least. He’s been good to me.”

“Here’s hoping that pattern continues.”

“Yeah. Here’s hoping.”

 

“Excuse me, Paladin Danse, sir, but Initiate Washington’s here.”

Danse’s turned his attention from his conversation with Paladin Amari. “Outstanding. If you’d excuse me for a moment, Paladin.”

“Sure,” she nodded and turned to speak with a scribe who’d been patiently waiting his turn to speak with her about putting up more turrets. Amari was the chief of security at The Citadel, back in the Capital, and had chosen to join their operation to reconnect with her estranged mother, whom Danse had yet to meet. Ana Amari was a retired Gunner and acting gun-for-hire, which wasn’t Danse’s favorite sort of person to deal with but he’d met a few mercenaries that he counted as trustworthy, Nate being the most stand-out of them.

“Washington?” Danse heard Knight Bracht snort, having beaten him to the door before he could cross the length of the room. “You were supposed to answer the summons almost a whole week ago! What the hell took you so damn long?”

“That’s enough, Bracht. I’ll take it from here, thank you.” Danse excused the unarmored knight and was rewarded with Nate’s quiet but magnetic smile. He pressed his chapped lips together and cleared his voice, determined not to publicize any favoritism. Though the many soldiers now stationed at their base weren’t paying attention to their exchange, Danse didn’t want to risk any gossip. “Good afternoon, Initiate,” he nodded sharply. “Welcome back to Cambridge. My apologies for the uncouth welcome. Knight Bracht was not aware of our preceding conversation and my subsequent approval regarding your delayed arrival.”

“Heya, Danse—I mean Paladin. Shit. Sorry…” Nate offered a remorseful smile. “I’m uh…still adjusting to these titles…”

“That’s understandable. No harm done.” Danse had to suppress a grin at the initiate’s clumsy efforts of self-correction. He gave his new subordinate a quick once-over for any signs of injury incurred from a month of wandering.

Nate had found the sense to get a trim, the layers of his hair cropped a bit shorter towards the bottom but still wild and thick and golden, like he were growing a crop of wheat right out of his skull. His skin was still paler than any Danse had seen but has somehow managed to remain gratefully unburnt. Danse could note no immediate signs of radiation poisoning or anything else to be alarmed over, and Nate didn’t appear to have lost any weight or to be suffering from malnutrition. All-in-all, the young soldier appeared exhausted but undamaged.

Strata of newer and stronger-looking shadowed leathers were strapped securely over his still bright blue vault suit. The leather bag slung over his back was packed with what Danse presumed were supplies, and he still carried what looked to be the same but upgraded rifles and shotguns, though a new pistol was tucked in a holster on his small hips. He looked overall far more equipped to face the dangers of the Commonwealth, which was relieving to see but almost as equally discouraging. The pristine old-world model of humanity was becoming just another wastelander, and it was a damn shame.

“You look tired but healthy,” Danse decided.

Nate’s pink lips curled in to a grin and the paladin couldn’t stop himself from grinning back that time. “Thank you for waiting for me, sir.”

“Of course. You’re my responsibility until Elder Maxson decides otherwise.” Danse then turned his attention towards the stranger in Washington’s shadow, a taller man that looked like he could be Nate’s older brother. “Who’s your new companion, Initiate?”

“Oh! Paladin Danse, meet Jack Morrison.” The name sounded familiar.

Morrison nodded sharply, hands behind a laced back and legs spread shoulder-width. “Pleased to meet you, Paladin.”

“You’re a soldier,” Danse surmised, pleased at how the taller blonde held himself.

“I was in the Gunners for many years, but that was a long time ago. I’m well-retired from that life and primarily work as a caravan guard and gun-for-hire.”

“Jack’s got personal experience with the Brotherhood. He led a Gunner group in the Capital or something, right, Jack?”

“Yes. I’m good friends with Paladin Reinhardt,” he nodded. “You can access my files from any terminal the Brotherhood’s linked to, I’m sure.”

“JACK!” Danse might have been plowed over by Pharah if it wasn’t for his power armor. She managed to push her way through to scoop Jack up, not in her T-60 but still easily strong enough to lift a full-grown man off the ground.

Danse stepped back to give them breathing room, arching his scarred brow in surprise at the unanticipated display of affection. “You know this man?”

“Hell yeah, I do!” she chortled and put the man down, jabbing Jack straight in the chest. Danse personally knew that she did it with enough force to knock a man backwards, but Jack laughed it off as though it were nothing. “He’s good friends with my mom and Rein. Practically helped raise me. I haven’t seen him since I was a kid.”

“He looks too young to be that old.”

“Jack was part of a special program the Gunners ran—an experiment or whatever. SEP. It was the updated version of the first one.” She looked at Nate, giving him a once-over and smirking, hands on her hips. “I suppose that you must be the notorious Nate Washington, eh? I’ve heard lots about you. Danse wouldn’t stop bragging about his new initiate.”

Danse felt his face burn. “I wasn’t bragging.”

“Oh, he was definitely bragging.”

“Nice to meet you,” Nate chuckled and offered a hand, which she eagerly shook. “I’m not much worth bragging about, but I’m honored. So you know Jack? Got any embarrassing stories to share with me?”

“Oh, definitely. But not today.” Amari turned towards Danse, her humor converting to professionalism. “Are you going to take them to the Prydwen?”

“Affirmative. I was planning on escorting Initiate Washington there to report in with Lancer-Captain Kells before attending Elder Maxson’s speech, should we arrive on time. There’s a vertibird awaiting our departure.”

“I’d like to go with you, in that case. I’d like to be present for the speech, myself, if at all possible. Knight Rhys and Scribe Haylen can hold the fort down until I come back.”

“That would be acceptable. So,” Danse looked at the attentive-eyed Jack, “are you intending on accompanying us, or was this a simple visit to Paladin Amari?”

“Yes sir, I’d like to join you. I’ve been interested in the Brotherhood since the Capital and finally have the time and opportunity to chase that interest, should your organization be willing to consider me.”

“He’s a good shot and much more well-mannered than I am,” Washington grinned. “I encourage you to consider supporting him.”

“We’d be stupid not to take him,” Amari agreed. “Anyone would be lucky to have Jack in their ranks. I’d be more than glad to take him off your hands, if you don’t want him.”

“That’s quite all right, Amari. I’ll opt to sponsor him, should Maxson permit it.” Danse glanced down at Nate, trying his best not to flinch under the scrutiny of those cobalt irises. Nate was smaller than he was, particularly in his power armor, but the blonde still felt larger than life—the personification of the finest that the old-world had to offer them. It was crude to consider and Danse would certainly never admit it aloud, but he was grateful to Fate or Chance or whatever it was that chose to spare Washington and not some random blue-collar neighbor in his vault. The world benefited from Washington’s existence, and Danse could only presume that it was for some greater purpose. Perhaps the Brotherhood and their high calling of saving the Commonwealth and the whole of America was to be that purpose. “We’ll be reporting directly to Elder Maxson upon our arrival. Are you prepared to vacate?”

Nate flicked those pretty eyes of his at Jack, and a nod passed between them. “As prepared as we’ll ever be. It was nice to meet you, Paladin Amari.”

“Pharah’s fine. Danse is a stickler for titles but I’m a bit more laid back and prefer my nickname. You don’t have to call me by my proper title unless we’re around the big-wigs.”

“Which we will be doing once we’ve arrived on the Prydwen,” Danse pressed. “Now then, if we’re done with the banter, our veritbird is pending our arrival.” He turned and walked through the busy station towards the stairs, leading the group to the roof where a pilot was finishing preparations for takeoff on a veritbird.

“Paladin,” the woman saluted. “Heading up?”

“Affirmative. Prepare for takeoff, Scribe Thorested.”

“Yes sir!” She saluted him again, always crisp and proper, and ran to double-check the engines while the soldiers hopped on board through the open sides of the aircraft.

Both blondes climbed inside with practiced ease, though Danse found himself reaching to assist Nate when it appeared he might have some trouble. He wasn’t short by any means but he just looked so…small.

“I’ve got it,” Nate assured and yanked his slim body inside before buckling in. “Man, it’s been a good while since I’ve been in one of these things.”

“Did you utilize vertibirds in the military?” Fareeha sat beside Morrison and buckled herself in as the engines began to roar.

“Not really. Not in my line of work, anyways. We were meant tpo be quiet, and not much about a bird is quiet.”

Danse gripped the iron bar on the roof. “It’s a brief ride to the airport from here, but you’ll be able to see all of Boston. The view is actually quite stunning.”

Nate turned his eyes down towards his Pip-Boy to fiddle with the dials. “It was a lot prettier before it was rubble.”

Shit. “I didn’t mean it that way. My apologies if I misspoke.”

“It’s all right.” Nate didn’t look up from his Pip-Boy for the rest of the ride, going uncharacteristically quiet and Danse quietly scolded himself for his gaffe. It was his duty to make Nate feel comfortable and welcomed to the Brotherhood. One misstep is all it might take to run the prospective soldier away.

He’d need to be more sensitive to his charge’s history, in the future.

 

The ride to Boston Airport had indeed been a short one, thankfully, as 76 didn’t imagine that he could handle the unease in the cabin for much longer. Nate was on-edge for the entire ride but 76 didn’t know him well enough yet to put a finger on why exactly, other than the foot-in-mouth commentary on Danse’s part.

Seeing Danse again was…strange. He was still the same tall and dark-haired beast of a man, without any noticeable physical alterations that most synths chose to undertake before relocation, but his mannerisms were wildly different. He was no longer the feeble and awkward synth that 76 had rescued and taught how to fire a pistol; Danse’s timidity and meekness had been replaced with absolute certainty and fervor of his cause. He was a soldier, through and through, and seemed more than capable of defending both himself and others, though 76 secretly wondered if the poor guy could finally swim.

It was both good and bad to see M7-97 in his new life, not too unlike seeing McCree again. 76 was pleased that the synth had found a place he belonged and that he was successful, but Danse was now the world’s most ironic threat to his own kind, totally blinded to his own identity and eager to prove his value to the leadership.

76 would need to step lightly or the man he’d once saved wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in his head.

“There she is—the Prydwen.” Danse’s chest swelled as they approached the airport, the scope and size of the immense metal airship coming in to view. It was shaped like a bomb—oblong with a tail—and bore several large fans off the sides that kept it in place. The ship had a few veritbird docks on either side along the belly, with metal catwalks linking them and leading up into the vessel’s hollow innards. How did something this large stay afloat, exactly?

Their small aircraft wobbled and creaked as it docked, locking in to place, and their pilot turned the engines off as Danse took in a deep breath. “It’s been far too long since I’ve been aboard this vessel. Welcome home, Paladin Amari.”

“It’s good to be back,” she agreed and stepped out, offering a hand and helping Nate climb down.

It was immediately apparent in that moment that Nate had issues with heights. He fiddled more with his Pip-Boy in a nervous fashion, focusing on it rather than looking at the grated floors hundreds of feet above the bay. 76 put a supportive hand on his friend’s shoulder, and Nate glanced up, large blue eyes glossy, and offered a nervous little smile. “You all right?” he asked quietly as they slowly walked in the paladins’ shadows towards the stairs.

“Yeah. Just a little nauseated, that’s all.”

“I’m going to be honest, I didn’t peg you for the sort to be afraid of heights.”

“It’s not that.”

“Ad victorium, paladins,” a voice rose above the busy clatter of work and wind of the ship. The blondes looked up, attentions drawn towards a well-dressed man waiting for them. His umber skin matched a pair of flinty eyes staring them down, hard and cold with the purest military-ingrained professionalism. He wore an aviator’s cap and was decorated with small medals—the pilot of the vessel, no doubt. 76 knew the Brotherhood better than to mark this man as elder, but he was certainly a soldier of high rank and standing.

Both Danse and Pharah balled their fists and put them to their chests, legs coming together stiffly in the traditional Brotherhood greeting. “Ad victorium, sir,” they said in unison.

The pilot’s dark gaze cut through them, forcing the paladins to part so that he could better inspect both 76 and Nate’s figures with judgmental eyes. 76 felt his body fall in to proper and habitual poise, naturally triggered by the pilot’s rigid oversight, but Nate remained casual as ever beside him. In fact, 76 got the feeling that Nate was sizing the older soldier up, himself. The air between the two men sizzled and sparked, Nate’s blue eyes crossing the pilot’s black, both firm and unrelenting, until the taller man tilted his head back and gave an annoyed grunt—not a submissive sound but certainly a conceding one—and 76 could feel the smirk threatening to curl Nate’s lips. “You must be Initiate Washington.”

“Yes sir. That’d be me.”

“I’ve read Paladin Danse’s report on you,” the larger man droned evenly. “Quite impressive.”

“Uh… Thanks. I didn’t realize I’d come with paperwork.”

“You were a member of the original Soldier Enhancement Program, were you not?”

“I was.”

“Hm. I was expecting something...” he drifted and rolled his dark eyes up and down Nate’s small figure, “more.”

“More like what, sir?” Nate grinned, the expression lacking any actual politeness or benevolence behind it, though Danse didn’t seem to notice or mind, his brown eyes practically sparkling with what 76 could only read as pride. He looked at Nate with a sense of wonder and admiration, like a child meeting their hero for the first time. Nate was right: Danse really was ‘wholesome’…in his own, weird way.

“Just…more.”

76 wasn’t exactly surprised at the commander’s lackluster interest in Nate. The elfin blonde wasn’t what someone would expect for a person injected with a super-soldier serum and trained to be the military’s secret weapon against the Reds. Nate wasn’t bulky with muscles or wide-shouldered, nor did he have a square jaw or strong nose or anything else that people generally associated with a superhero in their mind’s eye. He was built for infiltration and assassination, not the front-lines. People tended to forget how valuable those qualities were, though 76 supposed that Danse didn’t underestimate the value of such traits.

“Don’t let my looks fool you, sir. I’m quite experienced in combat and promise not to underwhelm. The Brotherhood does things a bit differently than I’m used to, but I’ll make sure I meet any and all standards.”

“I’m sure. And you.” He turned his eyes towards 76, stunning the synth with how hard they were. “Who are you? I wasn’t expecting a second initiate.”

“Lancer-Captain Kells,” Pharah swept a hand, “allow me to introduce you to my family friend, Mr. Jack Morrison.”

“Morrison?” Kells arched a brow. “The Gunner Strike Commander?”

“You’ve heard of me, have you?”

“Yes. I have,” Kells confirmed, every tone and word and tilt of his head stiff. “You were presumed dead. Twice.”

“Yeah, I seem to have that habit, from time to time. I’m not dead, though, as you can plainly see.”

“Right. What exactly are you doing on my ship, Commander?”

“He’s interested in joining rank, sir,” Pharah answered for him.

“Joining?” Kells scoffed. “A Gunner joining the Brotherhood? Preposterous.”

“Ex-Gunner,” 76 reminded.

“Ex. Right. Well, I suppose whether or not you’re Brotherhood material isn’t up to me to decide. You’ll have to speak with our elder. Only he can make someone anything above an initiate.”

“That’s why I’m here, sir.”

“At least your reputation has you as at least mildly dependable,” Kells grunted, obviously not too keen on having a Gunner on his ship. He returned his eyes towards Nate, who had gone back to fiddling with his Pip-Boy. “INITIATE,” he snapped curtly, but Nate only barely glanced up.

“Hm?”

“As a vetted soldier, you should know to keep your full attention while being addressed.”

“You weren’t talking to me. Sir.”

Oh boy.

Kells’ eyes narrowed to black slits. “You’d be wise to show more respect to your superiors, Initiate.”

“Of course. Sorry, sir,” Nate smiled derisively. “My apologies.”

Kells angled himself to speak directly towards Danse, now aggravated. “You’ll be pleased to hear that your request to act as Washington’s sponsor have been approved. It is now your duty to escort your initiate while he is on this vessel, and to monitor his activities to ensure that he meets Brotherhood standards until Elder Maxson decides otherwise. You will be held responsible for any ill-behavior. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir. It would be my pleasure.”

“Good. Now then, all of you get inside. Elder Maxson is preparing to give a speech and you’d all benefit from being present. Ad victorium, soldiers.”

“Ad victorium,” Danse and Pharah echoed before motioning for the blondes to follow.

76 most definitely caught Nate’s silent but combative exchange of glances with the commander as they meandered off towards the grated stairs to head inside. Nate was asking for trouble, picking a fight with the first real leader they met, and Kells was certainly not a personality to me messed with or tested. But that’s exactly what it was: Nate was testing the leadership, poking and prodding for signs of weakness and character. But why? The Brotherhood was military. The end. What exactly had he been expecting?

Nate claimed to only be there at all because the Brotherhood had access to gear that he needed to continue his search for Shaun. Specifically, he required power armor, of which the Brotherhood freely handed out to their Knights and above. Nate was looking for the Institute and so were they; the relationship was mutually beneficial, but 76 wasn’t so sure that they’d be eager to overlook personality defects just because Nate was a good soldier. But this was Nate’s show and 76 opted to keep his mouth shut. All he planned on doing was watching him and seeing what Washington was going to do next, a habit that most of the smaller soldier’s companions seemed to share.

Danse and Pharah nodded at the heavily-armed Knight in power armor guarding the metal doorway as they passed in to the Prydwen’s hull. The inside of the ship was dim but much warmer than the freezing midday outside. The first room was round in shape with a hole in the center and a ladder connecting to the upper-floors of the ship. Kells’ brightly-lit command deck was just below, some stairs leading only a few yards away to the lower deck, where 76 could clearly see unarmored soldiers and scribes manning an array of beeping terminals that kept the ship healthy.

Directly across from them was another room, where the main windows of the ship overlooked the may, allowing light to pour in to the circular room. There, 76 could see several people at full-attention, and a single man in front of them—the elder, no doubt.

The paladins led them into the room, where Maxson was pacing in front of four large windows that made up the ship’s view-port. Maxson looked to be in his twenties and wasn’t too much taller than Nate, probably around six foot, but was a good deal more filled-out with well-earned muscle hidden under a black Brotherhood flight suit and a leather coat with oversized lapels laced in wool. His dark hair was shaved on the sides and long on the top, not too dissimilar from the style Gabriel had worn in his youth, and he sported a thick but well-kept beard and dark eyes. He was mildly handsome, but not in 76’s personal tastes, though he could see how his looks might amplify his natural charisma. Every movement he made was oozing with natural and rugged magnetism, masculine but not overpowering. The synth could very quickly tell that Arthur Maxson was a zealous personality, and was easily the sort of man that would head a military organization.

76 and Nate were encouraged to stand in the back and to pay attention. The room was hardly ten-by-ten and he could see every soldier in attendance, and immediately recognizing Brigitte standing at attention in the front.

“Brothers and sisters,” began Maxson, still pacing but hesitating to speak directly to his soldiers while theatrically emphasizing his words with his gloved hands, “the road behind has been long and fraught with difficulty. Each and every one of you has surpassed my expectations by rapidly facilitating our arrival in the Commonwealth. You have accomplished this amazing feat without a hint of purpose or direction, and most impressively without question.”

76 had to force his brows from shooting to his hairline, shocked at Maxson’s aggressive rhetoric. The man had probably never even met a synth in person. How did they even find out about them? Where was Maxson getting this information?

Maxson continued his pacing, turning to considerately gaze out the window before once again whirling to face them. 76 noted how the elder made brief eye contact with Nate before continuing his speech. “Now that the ship is in position, it is time to reveal our purpose and our mission. Beneath the Commonwealth there is a cancer known as the Institute, a malignant growth that needs to be cut before it infects the surface. They are experimenting with dangerous technologies that could prove to be the world’s undoing—for the second time in recent history.

“The Institute scientists have created a weapon that transcends the destructive nature of the atom bomb. They call their creation the ‘synth’, a robotic abomination of technology that is free-thinking and masquerades as a human being. This notion, that a machine could be granted free will, is not only offensive but horribly dangerous. And like the atom, if it isn’t harnessed properly, it has the potention of rendering us extinct as a species.

“I am not prepared to allow the Institute to continue this line of experimentation. Therefore, the Institute and their synths are considered enemies of the Brotherhood of Steel, and should be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly.

“This campaign will be costly, and many lives will be lost, but in the end we will be saving Humankind from its worst enemy: itself. Ad victorium!”

“Ad victorium!” the small crowd exclaimed before they dispersed.

Brigitte didn’t seem to notice 76 at all, her eyes already preoccupied with a file she’d picked up off a table half-covered in bottles of liquor. He watched he move past him, distracted up until he heard Maxson speak again. “You must be Nathaniel Washington, the ‘General’ of the militia known as the Minutemen, and Paladin Danse’s person initiate. I’ve heard that you’re from a vault—that you were frozen and once worked with the United States Government as a special operative in their Soldier Enhancement Program. Is all of that correct?”

“It is.” Nate was standing in front of the young elder, hands behind his back and legs spread in the most respective and ‘proper’ manner that 76 had seen him hold himself thus far. Pharah was working on pouring herself a bottle of whiskey but Danse’s eyes were on his initiate.

“I care about them, you know; the people of the Commonwealth.” Maxson’s voice was much calmer now, almost delicate or reverential. “I came all the way here from the Capital Wastelands to break the Institute’s bondage over this state and I have every intention of doing so, hard as it may be. As a man of the people whom the citizens trust, it would be of great benefit to have you in our ranks, and I am honored to have you here on board my ship, seeking our assistance in your present plight.”

“May I speak candidly, sir?”

“You may.”

“Invading the Commonwealth, even if your motives are respectable and in good intention, is a poor way to earn the support of our people. In my day, you’d have been someone I would have personally been dispatched to assassinate. And I’d have done so, without hesitation.”

“Ah,” Maxson smiled in spite of the passive warning. “Yes. I can wholly understand your concerns with our methods. Turning your weapons on the very people that you’re trying to save can be a bitter pill to swallow.”

“I’ll be frank, sir, I’m here because I believe that we can mutually benefit one another in this relationship. You have materials and manpower that I profit from having access to, obviously, but what exactly do you want from me? Certainly you’re not expecting me to just tell everyone to be all right with this invasive behavior.”

“I _want_ you to begin taking responsibility for this planet,” Maxson emphasized. “To start making a difference by purging this land of its malevolent infection. And from what I’ve read in Paladin Danse’s reports, you’ve already begun that journey all on your own. Though I understand that your path forward is less about cleansing this land and more about retribution and being reunited with your son, our paths are nevertheless colliding quite neatly. And seeing as how Danse is one of my most respected field officers, you honestly couldn’t get a better recommendation. Therefore, from this moment forward, I’m granting you the rank of knight in the expectation that our combined efforts and goals shall prove valuable to both parties, and faith that you might elect to support this organization beyond our inevitable victory in this war. And, befitting your title, we’re granting you a suit of our own custom power armor to protect you on the field of battle. Wear it with pride.”

“Understood. And I will, sir. Thank you.”

“Of course. I’m glad that we can assist you in such a time of heartache, Knight. In any event, once you’re finished becoming familiar with the Prydwen and my staff, report to the flight deck for your new orders.” Maxson pressed a clenched fist to his chest and nodded in a deferential gesture. He seemed to legitimately admire and respect Nate, probably due to the soldier’s history and unique military experience, but he most definitely knew that the soldier was crucial to garnering local support.

Due to his work in the Minutemen, Nate had the backing of and influence over many of the farmers, merchants and settlers all across the Commonwealth. If Maxson could win him over, ‘Knight Washington’ would be a key ally in gaining the people’s trust and support, granting the Brotherhood would access to badly-needed supplies and tactical locations for their outposts. It was possible that Maxson was being honest in his empathy, but 76 suspected it was mostly a simple display. This union was about mutual benefit and strategy—for both parties—and they’d have to learn to cooperate and play nice, even if their pleasantries were disingenuous.

“Welcome to the Brotherhood, soldier. Make us proud. Now then, Paladin Danse, whom is this other man you’ve brought me?”

“Jack Morrison, sir,” 76 saluted.

Maxson’s brows rose in surprise, recognition sparking in his eyes and a smile being reigned in. “Morrison? Our last reports had that you’d been killed in action during a raider raid in a Gunner outpost.”

“I escaped—again. I’ve been just working as a mercenary, mostly. Wandering aimlessly around the state. Looking for a purpose. I was always interested in the Brotherhood and was hoping that maybe you’d be willing to give me a chance, sir.”

“The renowned Strike Commander is looking to join the Brotherhood of Steel? Well,” he smiled, “how can I deny such a legendary figure a place in my ranks? Welcome to our organization, brother.”

“I’d like to be his sponsor, if that’s all right,” Fareeha offered. “I’m familiar with Jack and his personality. It might benefit him to be immediately familiar with his leadership.”

“That is acceptable, for now,” Maxson agreed. “However, in the long-run, Knight Morrison would be expected to report to less-acquainted personnel.”

“Yes sir,” Fareeha saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

Maxson turned his brown eyes back towards 76, clearly pleased. “Meet the staff with Knight Washington and report in to me, together. Paladin Danse shall escort you for now, as I understand that Paladin Pharah has work to attend elsewhere. Dismissed.” The elder about-faced to look back over the bay, hands behind his back, mind drifting.

“All right, losers,” Fareeha smirked, “I’ll see you guys later tonight. Save me a spot for dinner?”

“Yes,” Danse nodded. “I shall inform you of any updates or requirements. Good luck, Paladin.”

She chuckled and winked at Jack before finishing her drink and turning to walk out. “See you guys later! And welcome to the family!”

 

The Brotherhood was an absolute train wreck, and what’s worse was that Danse had no idea.

Maxson had his soldiers on his charismatic strings—strings that Nate recognized all too easily. Most people were ludicrously stupid and fell easily for a smile here, a well-placed hand there, backed up by the right amount of passion and resolve. It typically worked to his advantage, but when presented with others pulling the same tricks, Nate grew nervous.

Maxson was narrow-minded and naive, but he also wasn’t someone to be tested or trifled with. Nate would need to be cautious to avoid getting tangled in the elder’s network of devoted and bloodthirsty strings. Any mistake could prove lethal, but Nate was confident that Danse would make an effort to shield him from the worst of it. But even Danse couldn’t completely protect him, and the day could come where he might not even try to, should Maxson call for Nate’s or Jack’s head. Nate barely knew Jack but they were on the same team now and like hell he’d tolerate any attack on his new companion. Nobody messed with Nate’s friends and walked away with all of their fingers and limbs in-tact, not even the leader of a military organization.

To make matters even more complicated, Danse had been charged with trailing him. Running jobs for the Railroad would have to go on the backburner until things blew over. In the meantime, Nate could at least enlist Danse’s help with assisting settlers and fighting off supermutants, raiders and ferals, all activities the paladin would take up with gusto.

Danse’s years of field experience and Brotherhood-funded power armor made him an excellent candidate for Nate’s upcoming voyage into the Glowing Sea in search of Virgil. Plus, it would be nice to have an excuse to spend some time getting to know Danse better. The guy wasn’t exactly eager to share personal information. And spending some time apart the Brotherhood would be healthy for Danse, too. Nate could show him how the world should really be. He’d already committed to at least try. Danse was challenging but he was also a good man, uncertain of his place in the world and looking for guidance and purpose, and Nate wouldn’t abandon him to be swallowed whole by Maxson’s rhetoric.

He was going to save Danse from the Brotherhood’s grip before he got out of there, himself. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it could be done, and Nate was going to give it his all. He never left anyone behind, indoctrinated soldier or otherwise, and that wasn’t about to change now.

Nate had already met with the mousy but polite Proctor Quinlin, an older man in charge of gathering intelligence and organizing all of the Brotherhood’s paperwork and discoveries, and had checked out his T-51 and picked up his holotags from Proctor Ingrim. Ingrim was upfront, down-to-earth and curt, with little tolerance for stupidity or laziness. He got the feeling that she respected Maxson but was invested in the Brotherhood in different ways than the young bigots he’d already encountered. They were going to get along well. He was now receiving a check-up by the Prydwyn’s chief medical officer, knight-captain Cade, a middle-aged man wearing a tan and off-white version of the outfit scribes all shared. He was mostly bald and decorated in stress-wrinkles, carrying the serious tone and body language expected with in this sort of organization.

The doctor was busy reviewing Nate’s file while the soldier checked his Pip-Boy and marking the map in preparation for errands to run with Danse when this was all done with. The paladin was waiting quietly for him just on the other side of a grey and red Brotherhood flag utilized as a drape to give patients at least minor privacy. Nate had told him that he could come inside, but Danse had shyly made an excuse about how it would be inappropriate and excused himself.

“So,” Cade glanced his steely eyes up from the paperwork, “you’re really from before the bombs fell?”

Nate turned his screen off and nodded. “Yes sir. I was cryogenically frozen.”

“Amazing. You’re probably the healthiest man on this vessel, or perhaps the whole of the state. Would it bother you if I took a blood sample? We make a point to keep blood type and genetic sequences in our data-banks, in case of medical emergency or a need for postmortem identification.”

“I guess,” Nate shrugged and rolled up his right sleeve to his elbow.

 Cade moved to grab a prepared syringe and turned Nate’s hand, preparing the spot with antiseptic and expertly pricking him in a vein on the first try. Needles never bothered Nate before SEP, but they made him sick to his stomach nowadays and he preferred not to look. He turned his eyes towards the flag, catching sight of Danse’s familiar metal silhouette and smirking to himself at how stiff and serious the guy was. “There, all done,” the doctor interrupted his thoughts, needle withdrawn. “Fascinating...”

“Hm?” Nate glanced at his arm, the pinprick already healed. “Oh. Yeah. I heal fast,” he commented and pulled his sleeve down. “Part of the whole SEP thing.”

“I see. We did manage to find papers about the experiments but no concrete details on your old files. Could you elaborate upon your genetic modifications, for my records? I need to know any details or side-effects, to ensure that I’m best-equipped to handle any special health requirements you may need.”

“Sure. Let’s see… Fast healing, increased senses and perception, an evolved inner-ear that gives me extra balance, increased sensitivity to light which helps me see in the dark, improved reflexes and mental processing speeds, I got pretty damn close to getting a fully-developed photographic memory, increased stamina and strength… All sorts of stuff. As for side-effects that I still suffer from? Since my bursts of strength come from an overworked adrenal gland, I’m pretty helpless for a while if I overuse it or overextend myself. So I have to be careful. I have insomnia, night-terrors, and occasional anxiety and panic-attacks. I’m resistant to most chemicals and medications but my immune system is trash and I have a tendency to get sick easily. I also suffer occasional memory loss. Most recently, I lost pretty much all of my memories for a second time in my life.”

“You lost your memory?”

“Yes sir. The first time was from the serum, but this second time I think was triggered by the cryogenesis. I can’t be sure, obviously. I don’t remember most details of my life before the day the bombs dropped.”

“I see. Thank you for being honest with me. Have you experienced any illness since you woke up?”

“Not yet. I fought off what I think was a minor cold, and I’ve had a little allergies from all the new plants and stuff, but nothing serious. I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

“Please do. Your medical files had you as perfectly healthy beforehand so I’m going to assume you’ve experienced no serious illness during your time in the military.”

“That seems like a safe assumption to make.”

Cade scribbled a few more lines on his form and hummed to himself, going down the pages and checking all his boxes. “All right, I believe I’ve gotten enough information from your old files to adequately update your medical paperwork. Only one more thing, and I’m sure this is a bit uncomfortable, but please answer sincerely. Have you had any intimate encounters with anyone or anything since you woke up?”

Nate arched an eyebrow and grinned. “Are you asking me if I’ve fucked a chair, sir?”

The doctor sighed, his overgrown eyebrows flattening irritably. “No, Knight. I’m referring to non-humans. Ghouls, mostly, but there are others. You’d be surprised how many people say yes. But please, answer the question honestly. It’s the last one.”

“No, I haven’t had any ‘intimate’ encounters with anyone. My wife just died, sir. I’m not in any rush to seek the comfort of anyone in that manner right now, ghoul or human or otherwise.”

Cade’s face paled. “Oh… Right. Yes. I…apologize, Knight. I didn’t mean t—”

“Are we done here, sir?” Nate slid off the gurney, lacking the willpower to even falsify a smile and instead feeling his expression fall stiff. “I don’t want to keep Paladin Danse waiting.”

“Yes. Yes, we’re done. Thank you for your time, Knight. You can tell Morrison that I’ll interview him once his previous medical history has been dug-up and organized.”

“Yes sir.” Nate casually saluted before he left, not yet accustomed to the fist-to-the-chest thing yet, and nearly bumped in to Danse. “Ready to go, Paladin. Are we almost finished with the meet-and-greet?”

Danse had been staring across the wall, eyes glossy from focusing on an illustration of muscular anatomy, without really paying it any genuine mind. Nate could see the soldier’s light brown eyes dilate and come back in to focus under the yellow glare of the artificial lighting. “Almost. We have to stop by Proctor Teagan before we report back to Elder Maxson, but don’t look so happy about it.”

The blonde sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I’m just… This is a lot.”

“It’s fine. You’re under a great deal of stress and I shouldn’t expect you to rush things. I’m just eager to show you around.”

Nate didn’t suppress a short laugh as it bubbled from his chest, his insecurity beginning to wane under the weight of Danse’s confidence. Danse was definitely a Brotherhood soldier and he followed Maxson’s dogma, but he was still a good man and he made Nate feel at home amidst the familiar yet alien territory. “I’m good to go, Paladin. Lead the way. Where’s Jack?”

“Knight Morrison went ahead of us to have his measurements taken for his power armor. He’ll meet us at the shop.”

Nate nodded and motioned, falling in to step beside Danse and wandering down the length of the main hallway, ignoring glances from curious and judgmental soldiers noticing his vault suit. Danse’s presence graciously shielded him from any commentary that he might have had to deal with, particularly when they moved through the busy Mess Hall, though Danse did occasionally bark at passing soldiers, mostly to stop roughhousing. Everyone that saw him saluted him in passing, and Danse only nodded in recognition and moved forward, professional and stern. The Mess Hall bled in to the garage, where six power armor frames were kept, holding three empty sentinels of T-51 and T-60 on either wall. Beyond the grease and gears and smell of blowtorches was a caged room with a counter and a small opening, where a man was leaning and speaking through the iron grate to Jack. Behind him were shelves of weapons and armor and ammunition.

“The other new guy, I presume?”

“Proctor Teagan, meet Knight Washington,” Danse smirked and nodded proudly.

“Hello,” Nate greeted, forcing a small smile.

“Nice to meet you, I’m sure.” Teagan was another middle-aged man dressed in something akin to the scribe armor, though his was brown and an ashy rose. He was dirty and balding and had a black goatee that badly needed a trim. His eyes were wrinkled and baggy, and Nate read them enough to get the sense that this wasn’t someone he was going to like. The man smiled sarcastically and wiped his hands on a rag. “Welcome to my little slice of heaven, where I sell all the ammo and weapons you could ask for.”

Nate arched a brow up at Danse. “Your military doesn’t provide basics for their soldiers?”

“We ask that everyone does their part.” There was that sarcastic smile again, and Nate was thoroughly annoyed by the fact that the proctor had answered on Danse’s behalf. “Weapons and ammo doesn’t grow on trees, kid, and we’re not exactly supported by taxpayer’s dollars like the NCR. We supply power armor but the soldiers are responsible for their own weapons. I also purchase weapons and other things, so feel free to swing by. My scribes design weapons and armor and all sorts of trash. I’m pretty much responsible for all of the fine details of support on this ship, including making sure we have the materials and food we need.”

Nate didn’t like where that was leading, and he particularly didn’t care for how Teagan was eyeing him, like he was meat. Not sexually; more like Nate was something to be milked. Teagen wanted at his ‘materials and food’.

His settlements. Teagan wanted his _settlements_.

Nate resisted the urge to punch through the wire and seize the man at the stubbly throat, instead smiling his anger in to submission. It fooled Danse but not Jack, who was eyeing him guardedly from where he was leaning against the counter, arms crossed and wearing that same fake smile Nate was so good at making. They weren’t too dissimilar. Normally that would make him nervous, but it was clear that Jack was on his side and could be trusted, so he mostly just found their similarities as amusing.

“Well, it’s good to meet you, sir. I’m sure I’ll make my way here at some point.” Fat fucking chance.

“Right. Come on by after you’re done with your next mission,” Teagan winked, and Nate’s stomach curled in on itself uncomfortably. “I think you and I have some things to discuss.”

“Thank you, sir. Paladin,” he looked towards Danse, who was sparkling down at him, “I think we’re ready to meet with Elder Maxson for our first mission.”

“Affirmative. Thank you for your time, Proctor.”

“Right, right… See you around.” Teagan did a weak salute and waved a hand dismissively before returning to his wares.

Jack shrugged off the counter and joined them in their march back towards the main hub, flanking Nate in the shadow of Danse’s bulk and offering a genuine and apologetic little smile that silently asked him if he was all right. Nate smiled back in response. Yes. He was all right. But the Brotherhood was turning out to be exactly what he was afraid of.

Nate could only pray that he could put the Brotherhood on the right path, and that he wouldn’t have to burn the whole organization to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Brotherhood.  
> War never changes, and neither does the military.
> 
> ME: I’m going to get this chapter all the way through Fort Strong! *PROCEEDS TO JUST WRITE MORE TALKING* God damn it.
> 
> Everyone in the BoS talks too much… But NEXT chapter is Fort Strong, where Danse gets his patience tested with two VERY independent knights and gets his first exposure to Nate’s personal damage. We’ll be heading back to check in with Gabriel again, the chapter after that.
> 
> Next week is Thanksgiving weekend, so expect a late chapter unless I manage to throw enough together to post early. No idea how long the chapter will be. Per usual…


	23. Christmas at Fort Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blonde super-soldiers prove their value in the field of battle, and Nate faces his first Christmas in the new world.
> 
> Got a few jumping POVs this chapter.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mild gore, and panic/anxiety attacks

Once their tour of the ship had been finished at the flaming garbage pile that was Teagan’s shop, Danse led the blondes back out towards where they’d docked their vertibird to find Maxson loitering at the end of the metal catwalk, hands behind his back while he stared thoughtfully out upon the navy depths of the bay. Maxson was a shithead but 76 couldn’t accuse him of not believing in or practicing what he preached. He really seemed to have absolute faith in his self-imposed ‘calling’ to rescue the people of the Commonwealth from the Institute. It would have been a welcome trait if the young leader weren’t so, for the lack of a better term, genocidal.

The elder turned to face them before they’d even came within a couple of yards, expression stiff but pleased, and 76 took note yet again of Nate’s immediate change in countenance—how his back straightened and his hands clasped behind his back.

“I trust that your tour went well."

“Yes sir,” Danse answered for them. “Both soldiers have met with the proctors and have had their measurements taken for their power armor. Morrison’s paperwork has not yet arrived from the Capital, but once it does, he shall receive a proper medical exam.”

“Excellent. Well, now that you’ve both become better-acquainted with my ship and crew, are you ready for your next assignment, brothers?”

Nate gave a small nod, which seemed to be enough to satisfy Maxson, who turned and looked back on the bay as though considering what he was about to request.

“Good. Let’s get right to it then, shall we?” Maxson turned his head to nod at an isolated strip of beach, where a large building was surrounded by smaller, ruined houses that speckled the sand in clusters of concrete. “Take a look over there. That’s Fort Strong, and it’s infested with supermutants.” The elder turned back towards them, disgust glimmering in his dark eyes. “Having those aberrations close enough to smell is making me sick to my stomach. To make matters worse, they’re sitting on top of a stock of Fat Man shells that we could use in our campaign. I want you to head over there, wipe out everything that moves, and secure that stockpile. The Brotherhood cannot allow these abominations to have a nuclear arsenal at their fingertips. Understood?”

 “Consider it done, sir.” Beside him, Nate betrayed no sign of emotion, his expression having turned solemn. It was an expression 76 recognized all too well as one that Jack put on; the cold and unfeeling fallback of a comfortable nothingness. SEP solider #06 was undeniably related to Jack.

“It’ll be a pleasure to exterminate that mutant fifth,” Danse sneered.

76 was only a little bit shocked at how Danse rose to meet his elder’s intolerant tone, and it was at that moment very evident how Maxson’s bigoted view of the world and narrow-minded ideas of ‘humanity’ effected his soldiers. Even good-hearted people were clearly subject to Maxson’s flavor of dogma. The Brotherhood of Steel had always been a shoot-first-ask-questions-later sort of group, but 76 had never heard Reinhardt or his men speak like this about anything. Hating supermutants was justifiable—a majority were unintelligent butchers that ripped people apart for food, after all—but this was a deeper sort of contempt that made 76 exceptionally uncomfortable.

Maybe the synth had bitten off a bit more than he could chew this time. 

“We have a vertibird on standby at the airport, fully armed and ready for takeoff. Use it to carry our message to Fort Strong and wipe those dirty mutants from the face of the earth. Dismissed.” Maxson put his fist to his chest and turned to once again star out at the bay, leaving the blondes to be led off by an eager Danse

 

“I do wish you’d reconsider,” Danse grunted unsatisfactorily while boosting Nate up in to the veritbird. He’d never seen a man with such a small waistline before, and the soldier weighed a good deal less than Danse would have liked. Perhaps now that he was in the Brotherhood, the young knight would get proper meals to bulk him up some. Not that he was lacking in physical strength or capability—on the contrary, Washington had proven to be far stronger than he looked—but if he were this combat-ready while surviving on irradiated tatos and moldy Instamash, Danse could only imagine how much he could do on hardier and healthier foods. “You’re going in to a battle without proper gear. You’re going to be vulnerable and put everyone else in the squad at risk if we have to cover your back.”

“Danse, relax,” the Knight laughed, and Danse cursed inwardly at how the sound made his bones warble. Nate winked and offered a hand to help him in, like he could actually lift a man with several inches on him and wearing full T-60 power armor. Danse ignored the offer and gripped the handle to pull himself inside, Nate’s look-alike effortlessly leaping in behind him, though Danse took marketed note of the way Morrison glanced at the minigun with some unease before sitting down and buckling in. “I’ve been in a war before. Besides, I hate power armor. It’s so bulky and slow, and it never fits me right. It pinches me right in the joints, it’s the freaking worst. I don’t know how you stand it.”

“It will fit you properly once appropriately customized. Proctor Ingram is modifying a frame to suit your particular needs.”

“I can’t move in it,” Washington insisted, raising his light voice over the roar of the engines during their uneven liftoff. “I need to be quick on my feet, Danse. I’m no good in heavy armor. Even this breastplate is a bit much for my tastes.”

“You may have been in war before, and I’m not about to demean your personal experience, but I will press the fact that you’ve never faced an army of supermutants,” Danse argued. “You don’t know these monsters as well as I do. If one of those things gets a hold of you, they’ll rip you apart if you’re not properly protected.”

“Scribes don’t wear power armor,” Nate puffed.

Danse moved to buckle the fussing knight up and gripped the handle on the roof as the airship tilted. “Scribes aren’t meant to be in the battlefield, and when they are they’re in the back and out of direct line of fire. They only engage with the enemy when absolutely necessary. And you,” he swept his eyes from the pouting Washington to a grinning Morrison, “what’s your excuse?”

The larger blonde shrugged. “The same as Nate, actually. I’m a runner. You can keep your T-51, Paladin. Besides, my armor’s stronger than it looks. I can take direct shots better than Nate can, I’m faster than he is and I deal more damage on the run.”

“Hey! You do not!”

“You’re both preposterous. You’re going to get yourselves or me killed.”

“Only if you get in the way,” Jack commented dryly. Danse would have taken it as a sarcastic quip but the blonde seemed to be genuine about the claim, and he wasn’t sure how to react to it, much less feel about it.

He sighed through his nose and turned his attention back towards Washington, who was staring at the floor wearing a thinly-veiled unease that the paladin had seen more than a few times. “Airsick?”

Washington glanced up and smiled through the discomfort. “Just a little,” he admitted. “It’s been a while since I was in a veritbird this much. We didn’t use them a lot in my line of work.”

Danse pushed a button to release a small compartment from his leg, revealing some hidden Big Pops bubblegum. “Take this. It should help.”

“Thanks,” Nate smiled a bit awkwardly, looking green at the gills as he snatched out a stick and pressed the compartment shut.

“You should have mentioned this issue when you had your physical on the Prydwyn,” Danse scolded, once certain that Nate had put the gum in his mouth. “Cade has crafted a medicinal beverage based on ginger-root that has proven reasonably effectual in easing motion sickness. Your discomfort was completely avoidable, had you simply been up-front.”

Nate made an expression that Danse couldn’t decipher as annoyed or ashamed. “I guess that I didn’t think it was going to be relevant.”

“Our base of operations is steel airship.”

“Oops,” Nate smiled apologetically and Danse hated himself for finding it endearing.

“Talk to Cade,” he pressed.

“I’ll do it at the earliest opportunity, sir.”

“If that was sarcasm, I’m going to throw you out of this vertibird.”

The blonde only laughed and Danse had to swallow a sigh. Washington was going to be challenging but Morrison was arguably worse. Danse at least was familiar with and trusted Nate—they’d fought together a few times by this point and had a solid rapport built on trust—but he didn’t know Morrison terribly well yet. It certainly didn’t help things that Danse’s name and honor were on the line if either blonde turned out to be serious trouble, and Maxson had made it abundantly clear that he was going to be taking a singular interest in the pair, particularly Nate. Danse needed to brand them with the Brotherhood’s regulations and expectations of character. Luckily for everyone involved, the duo were at least acquainted with the military.

Danse had been a paladin long enough to sniff out unruly personalities, and could generally predict how and when difficult soldiers would act out, but Nate and Jack were challenging because they were well-above the skill and experience level of average initiates. Danse expected that both men could run circles around him, particularly Nate, whom he’d seen take on a dozen hostiles without injury. Nate was…astounding. Danse found himself entranced, and he’d be lying through his teeth if he said he wasn’t enthusiastic to see what the soldier could actually do. He anticipated that Nate wasn’t going to disappoint. And if the way Morrison held himself was any indication, he wasn’t going to be too far behind.

Danse was in over his head with his newest recruits but he was holding out hope that he could forge a legitimate relationship with at least Washington to help guide the Knight in the right direction. He just had to see the Brotherhood through Danse’s eyes; to understand how much they wanted to save Humanity from its past and future mistakes. If Nate would only permit himself to trust Maxson and the Brotherhood of Steel, Danse had zero doubt that Nate would find the camaraderie and belonging and fulfillment that he was searching for.

Washington was undoubtedly going to change the world. Danse just had to pray that he would take the Brotherhood with him.

“Target acquired, sir!” Their pilot yelled over the copter’s blades when the beach came in to view.

A hundred or so feet below was a three-story supermutant behemoth, a beastly thing with misshapen muscles atop muscles under its mangled, green skin. Danse had personally seen more than one eat a man in half. The monstrosity was throwing rubble at the planes, attempting to take out the vertibirds coming in for a landing like a child tossing rocks at circling vultures. The intention was to utilize their mounted minigun to take the abomination out from a safe distance before coming in for a landing, but Nate seemed to have other ideas.

“What the HELL do you think you’re doing?” Danse barked when Nate unstrapped himself to approach the side of the aircraft, blatantly ignoring the ping-pangs of incoming fire from the bloodthirsty giants below. “Regulation demands that you remain in the bird until we’ve landed or until I’ve given further orders otherwise!”

“Relax, Paladin.” The smaller of the blondes gripped the iron handle to the left of the minigun and flashed a smile that Danse couldn’t decipher as reassuring or harassing. “I know what I’m doing.”

“KNIGHT!” Danse lunged but it was too late to grab him. Nate leapt from the vertibird, though they were still a solid hundred feet in the air, and Danse was helpless to stop him. His stomach was thrown to his throat, eyes blown wide with horror at what had just transpired. Damn it! Was Nate TRYING to kill himself? But the knight landed effortlessly, as though the drop had been only a few feet, and showed no signs of injury or hesitation, rifle already in hand as he sank to creep along the dirt towards the behemoth. “Don’t you DARE!” Danse hissed when noticing Morrison lining himself up to leap. “You’ll wait for us to land! That’s an ORDER, Morrison!”

Jack tilted his icy gaze to leer at him out of the corner of his eyes, staring for a moment before withdrawing from the edge of the ship and snapping his mask on. “Understood.”

A roar of sound and the continued cursing of their pilot grabbed Danse’s attention back towards the front lines below, where the behemoth had dropped. The flurry of bullets between sides had halted, and standing on the twitching body was Washington, with several knights and paladins yelling and shouting excitedly on the ground before they continued to fire in to the crowd of monsters guarding the fort.

Danse sighed in remittance and motioned with a hand, and Morrison dropped down before bounding in to the field and firing his rifle while pilot brought the vertibird around. She landed the craft on the beach to let Danse off after the paladin had finished the final procedures. “I’ll be back within the hour. Keep the engines warm. But if the bird takes too much damage, return to the Prydwen for repair and we’ll get a ride elsewhere.”

“Yes sir! Good luck, and ad victorium!”

“Ad victorium,” Danse smirked eagerly and loaded his laser rifle to fall in step with his comrades, who were collectively slaughtering the supermutants and pushing others back. He swept his eyes across the beautiful chaos in search of his charges, finally spotting Morrison, who was leading a group of knights and initiates in to combat as though he were an experienced paladin, himself. Jack’s positioning was perfect. The way he moved, so confidently and with such experience, how he knew just how loudly to speak and how firmly, how he knew just when was the right time to shoot and when to hesitate… He was a leader by nature, and Danse knew on instinct alone that Morrison wasn’t going to stay a simple knight for long. Like Nate, Jack was destined for greatness.

Nate… Damn it… Where was Nate?

Danse scoured the battlefield for any signs of the knight. It was already evening, dark and chaotic, and Washington was small and quick-footed and challenging to track amongst the wreckage and plumes of gun smoke.

 _“No use looking for him, Paladin,”_ Morrison’s voice came in over the comm. “ _He’s already inside.”_

Danse put a finger to his earpiece to hear him clearer through the screaming and explosions. “Knight Washington’s in the fortress?”

_“Yes sir. He slipped in about a minute ago.”_

“Damn! How didn’t I see that?”

_“He’s pretty good at the whole sneaking thing. I’m going to help clear the beach and keep the airfields open for quick evac. Nate could use backup, though. He’ll whine about it but he’d benefit from a tank covering his flanks.”_

“He’s my responsibility so I’m going to go in after him. Why is he not wearing a comm?”

_“It’s probably turned off. Nate works with people but he’s a lone wolf sort, much more than I am, and I bet it distracts him. I’m accustomed to leading groups in combat but Nate was specifically trained to work alone, so it’s not a shocker that he’d want to slip out. This really isn’t his scene like it is ours.”_

“This organization is about collaboration and cooperation, not lone-wolf tactics.”

_“I get that, sir, but I honestly doubt that Nate’s methods will change just because someone’s telling him to. You’re better off learning his techniques and supporting him as best as you can. Nate’s built for small-group operations, and that’s where he shines. Who knows, maybe he’s more suited to a Sentinel lifestyle.”_

Sentinels were the closest thing a Brotherhood soldier could be to an elder but were very unique. The title permitted them to operate without oversight or justification for their actions or decisions. Sentinelhood was extraordinarily rare, and only handed to remarkable individuals who had proven their loyalty to the Brotherhood, had a specialized and incredibly skill set, and gained some sort of advantage by working alone. Generally speaking, an elder only had one or two sentinels in their faction. Maxson had yet to assign one, as he had no reason to, but maybe Morrison was on to something. Nate was certainly exceptional enough to marker him as deserving, but he’d have to prove he shared the Brotherhood’s values and fell in to line with Maxson’s code of ethics. That took time, usually decades of service, and though Danse deeply wanted to believe that Nate would be with them long enough for that, something told him that their collaboration wasn’t going to last that long.

“Maybe,” Danse sighed, his enthusiasm thinned at the thought of Washington’s departure.

Morrison and his adopted squad cleared a path for Danse to jog to the fort’s main entrance. _“Good luck, Paladin. I’ve got things covered out here.”_

“Yes,” Danse arched an eyebrow at the organized chaos. “I believe that you do. I’ll report in with you once Knight Washington and I have secured the fort and located our payload of interest. Paladin Danse over-and-out.”

_“Understood, sir. Morrison-out.”_

Danse moved inside and did a comprehensive sweep of the entrance gallery with his laser rifle, surprised by the quiet. Bags of chained flesh and bone hung in gory display from the ceiling, oozing rotten blood in to brown pools on the warped hardwood floor of the once prestigious fort. Supermutant corpses were scattered on the floor and the stairs that led to a raised platform that split off in to two separate directions, both doors missing off their hinges. The building creaked and groaned as though alive, and Danse could hear the distant rumblings and snarls of the monsters elsewhere in the building, but he found no sign of life in the first room. Just as before, Washington’s methods were brutally efficient, leaving no hostiles alive in his path. Danse only needed to follow the trail of bodies to find the soldier.

The paladin dropped low and crept towards the left doorway, moving quickly but quietly through the crumbling offices. It wasn’t in his personal taste to be stealthy but even Danse knew better than to go charging in to a building of unknowns.

Several minutes of following the trail of bodies later and Danse found himself taking an elevator that led to another hallway to a large room bellow a metal stairwell. A few mutants were patrolling around what appeared to be a generator, with more silhouettes stomping through the dirty glass of lower hallway windows. A harsh overhead light lit the room, and Danse only just managed to catch movement in the corner of his eye as some of the harsher shadows flicked over Nate’s small figure. Washington was already downstairs, half-hidden behind a pile of bound flesh that had once presumably been a person…or two, or three. He was wielding a silenced rifle, which struck Danse as preposterous-looking, and was readying an aim while remaining almost perfectly still. There was a perfectly good shot to be had against any of the mutants in his sight, but Nate seemed to be waiting for…something.

Danse could garner attention to make sure that the knight wasn’t going to be noticed but decided the best course of action would be to wait and see what Nate’s plan of action was. He really needed to stress that the blonde keep his comm on.

A tense half-minute ticked by before Danse heard a familiar _TING_ of a silenced weapon going off, and two mutants dropped. _TING, TING_. A green, hulking mutant hound dropped when it entered the room to investigate, and there was the sound of a large body hitting the floor when another figure collapsed in the hallway. The only way Nate could have made the shot was if he’d managed to snipe through a crack in the window, which was insane to Danse, but obviously not impossible. Nate reloaded his rifle and crept across the floor, hesitating to hide behind the generator to check his Pip-Boy.

“Knight,” Danse whispered.

Nate perked his head up, startled for a fleeting second. “Danse?” he whispered back. “Shit. What the hell are you doing here?”

The paladin did a sweep of the room and moved down the metal stairs to join him, crouching to his subordinate’s level, meeting Nate’s flat blue glare. “I’m here to assist in your task. You’re my responsibility.”

The blonde grunted and shook his head. “Danse, you shouldn’t be here. They need you outside.”

“I’m your Commanding Officer, Knight. You can’t give me orders.”

“Danse, come on. I work best alone or with people that complement my skill set.”

“You work with others all of the time.”

"Fine," Nate snorted, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. “You can come along. But we do this MY way.”

It had been years since the last time Danse had taken orders from anyone besides Maxson or a few select and higher-ranking officers, since he primarily worked with his own squad, but this was Nate’s assignment, not his. The whole point of Nate being here was to prove how valuable his skills were to Maxson. Danse could assist, and he certainly intended to do so, but he needed to give the soldier room to breathe. “Understood. I’ll follow your lead.”

“Thank you,” Nate nodded and reloaded his rifle. “Let’s clear the building of any remaining hostiles. I don’t want to be looking around and get jumped.”

“Agreed. Lead the way, Knight.”

Nate took in a deep breath before nodding once again to reaffirm the plan and began to move. He kept low to the ground, silent and stealthy, every move devoted to his craft. Danse did his best to mimic the knight, knowing that the creaking of the gears and servos in his armor was louder than his partner would have liked but Nate didn’t comment on it. Danse briefly flirted with climbing out of his T-60 but shot the idea dead before it fully flowered. They were in a hostile area and Washington required _proper_ backup.

“Disgusting,” Danse grumbled when stepping around the mutant hound’s carcass. Like the supermutants that raised and trained them, mutant hounds were green-skinned, hairless monstrosities; further evidence of science gone awry. But as Danse looked at the beasts with nothing short of disgust, there was only curiosity and neutrality in Nate’s cobalt eyes.

“They’re definitely not pretty to look at but they’re just animals. There’s no reason to get worked up over them.” Nate crept towards a terminal and Danse perked his head enough to see through the shattered glass of the room’s windows before crouching again. Certain the area was safe, the knight stood and filled the tiny concrete room with the click-clacks of his magic.

“These creatures are only proof of what sorts of things science is capable of when not properly handled and overseen by those that respect its power.”

“Science isn’t magic, Danse,” the blonde chuckled and made a pleased noise when he’d gotten through the security system. Nate began to click through entries but neglected to comment on whatever he’d found. “FEV was made in my time, you know. It was controversial and obviously the war sort of spread it unintentionally. I’m sure this isn’t exactly what the scientists that created it had in mind.”

“And what exactly did they have in mind to do with a virus capable of forcing evolution and causing aggression and mania?”

“I don’t know,” Nate shrugged honestly and turned the monitor off before crouching to check the clip of his rifle. “But I don’t think it matters much anymore. Decisions have consequences, Danse, but there’s no reason to be so judgmental towards people that lived literal centuries ago.”

“I don’t see why not. They’re the reason the world’s in the state of mess that it’s in.”

“The world would have fallen with or without FEV. The scientists weren’t the ones that dropped nukes on us or China or whomever else.”

“Regardless, their work has been responsible for the murder of millions of Americans since the bombs fell. How many people would be alive if it weren’t for things like supermutants or deathclaws roaming the wastes?”

Nate shrugged again and began to creep out of the room, his voice dropping. “I guess it doesn’t effect me so much.”

“It’ll effect you when you fight a deathclaw.”

“They’re not that bad,” Nate smirked over his shoulder at the shocked Danse.

“You’re not seriously suggesting that you’ve fought one of those things.”

“You just have to know where to shoot them. Don’t worry, Paladin, I’ll teach you how to kill the big lizards.”

Danse scoffed but followed, going quiet again so as not to gather any attention from remaining mutants. But though a thorough sweep of the building produced nothing but more terminals to be hacked and a couple of safes to be broken in to. He studied Washington as the knight snatched an empty can to stuff in his bag, now comfortably moving around with the knowledge of their security. “What could you possibly be doing with that garbage?”

“Hm? Oh, the can? You’d be surprised at how handy aluminum is,” Nate chuckled and tossed a few more items of literal garbage in before closing the bag. “Do you think you’d be up to grabbing that extinguisher for me?”

Danse turned his dark eyes towards the item in question. It was covered in rust and hardly looked capable of putting any fires out. “You’re not serious.”

“You don’t have to, but the rubber and stuff in there’s actually really useful. I could use it to fix up a water purifier back home but I can't carry it. My bag's overflowing as it is.”

Danse sighed and stomped over to grab the extinguisher off the wall and turned to brandish it. “Happy?”

“Yes sir.” Nate smiled so genuinely that Danse’s stomach turned over. “Thanks! Now then, the storage should be just around the corner…” The knight swung his bag over his shoulder and strolled down a hallway and turned, leading Danse through the final area. Nate paused to glance at a locked wire mesh door that looked to be a storage area for some extra gear, but Danse was preoccupied with the items they’d actually come to acquire. The hallway ended in an open arch that overlooked an enormous room packed with military ammunition cases carrying all the parts necessary to piece together Fat Man bombs, each part neatly settled in dark grey foam.

“Outstanding,” Danse smirked and shut one of the crates after having dropped down to check through a few. “There has to be at least two-hundred crates here.”

“Two-hundred and thirty-five,” Nate called from where he was busy poking through the now opened storage room. “And each crate has the parts to eight bombs, meaning we’ve got about eighteen-hundred and eighty shells, assuming they’re all in good enough condition.”

“Elder Maxson will be pleased.”

“I’m sure he will.”

Danse looked up from the crate towards Nate, who was now standing in the arch, the harsh overhead lights behind him making him appear almost ethereal. “You don’t sound too excited.”

Nate dropped down. The jump might have caused a normal man outside of power armor to stumble but the knight took it with grace. Danse figured that he’d probably never forget seeing Nate leap from that vertibird. “You know, for a guy who’s so paranoid that science is going to destroy the world, you’re sure as hell not nervous about a military inheriting a stockpile of mini-nukes.”

“We know what we’re doing. Unlike those men and women, the Brotherhood is a responsible organization.”

Nate stared at him, blue eyes hard and cutting, but smiled. Danse didn’t know Nate well, but he knew him well enough to recognize one of his false grins when he saw it. “Right. Of course. Well then, Paladin, let’s report in. It’s late and I’m ready for a bite to eat.”

“Yes,” Danse nodded and watched as his blonde peer began to pretend to be interested in one of the open crates. “Let’s go home.”

 

Apparently, even the Brotherhood of Steel was good enough to their people to serve them a decent meal for Christmas Eve. It was a small dinner but not an awful one, with various meats to choose from, mashed tatos and vegetables, and various mufruit-based desserts like cobblers and pies. None of it was up to par with anything Gabriel had made, especially not for a holiday meal, but the fact that Maxson at least well-fed his soldiers during such special events was nice to see.

The Prydwen was packed, many soldiers having come up from the airport to join them, resulting in overflow rooms all around the ship for people to eat at. Their group—Nate, 76, Danse, Brigitte and Fareeha—had found an open table on the upper decks, close to the enormous helium tanks used to keep the ship afloat. Child soldiers called squires occasionally ran by their table, laughing and playing until corrected by passing soldiers. Fareeha smirked at them fondly and occasionally barked for them to calm down or to find their parents but seemed to be amused and pleased by their presence. She’d been the one to suggest the table there and 76 figured it was so that she could watch the kids run around. The fact that Maxson had dragged children in to a warzone bothered him more than just a little bit, but not was not the time to make a fuss. He’d just have to keep his mouth shut.

“I know that you haven’t officially joined the Minutemen yet, but do you think you’d be willing to lend me a hand with some things?”

“Sure,” the synth shrugged and scooted over to make more room for Nate when the blonde sat beside him, sliding his dinner tray over to make room for the mismatching bright blue cafeteria tray the General was using. Nate’s platter wasn’t nearly as stacked as 76’s, which struck him as odd. Due to his unique biology, 76 required a lot of calories to keep himself running, even with special modifications that made him digest foods better to get the most out of the crap available to eat; Nate had to be similar, in some regards. Jack and Gabriel had both eaten a ton of food, and though they were arguably more enhanced than Nate was, the blonde had to be hungry most of the time with how much work he did. 76 had a mountain of food, grabbing as much as they allowed him to take, and had already made plans to go back for seconds. Nate’s plate looked like a ten-year-old’s, mostly sweets and some meat with a dollop of tatos on the side like he felt he was obliged to eat it. “What exactly do you need from me?”

Nate poked a fork at his warm mutfruit cobbler before taking a test bite and nodding as though making silent, internal approval of the taste. “Well, I could really use someone taking a look at some of the farms and stuff. You’re familiar with Sunshine Tidings, right? Maybe you could check up on it and make sure things are working well there. I haven’t gone back since we cleared the place. Preston says it’s looking better but the pipes aren’t functional yet. And hey, if you can seriously install plumbing, I’d really love it if you took a look at the stuff in Sanctuary for me. Maybe you could work with Sturges and get it back up and running.”

The idea of going back to what had once been Blackwatch didn’t appeal to 76 but he swallowed it and nodded. “I can take a look. Gabriel was the one that did most of the plumbing, but I’m good at planning it all out and I know where to look for issues. I assume Sturges is another friend of yours?”

“He’s a mechanic,” Nate smiled. “He’s a little strange sometimes but he’s friendly and honest, and I trust him.”

“Think I’ll ever get to meet him?” Brigitte had self-inserted herself the moment she’d seen Fareeha sit at their table, and 76 had already gotten the feeling that some sort of crush was going on. The girl seemed kind enough, though, and Reinhardt had come by and virtually insisted that she take his place with the group since he had some meetings to attend. It looked like even Christmas wasn’t a good enough reason for the buy to take a day off, not that 76 was much better about it. This was the first holiday in years that he’d celebrated anything at all. But then again, there was never much to celebrate.

“Meet him?” Nate arched an eyebrow. “I mean, if you want to come see him at Sanctuary, that can be arranged, but why?”

“Brigitte’s a grease monkey,” Fareeha sniggered. “She’s considered a knight but acts way more like a scribe. Nerd.”

“I am not a nerd!” the red-head puffed, making her peer burst in to laughter when a red blush flashed on her cheeks.

“She’s in to fixing stuff up and building things and making designs and mods. She’s invaluable. And also a nerd.”

“Rude,” Brigitte huffed as her face turned to a shade of beet, and Nate smirked playfully at her, making it even more pronounced.

76 fought back a smile, hiding it with a large mouthful of a surprisingly-palatable molerat meatloaf of some sort. “I’d be happy to help out where I can.”

“Great! I’ll message Hanzo and let him know to expect you. You know Ana and stuff, too, so maybe you can help her get acclimated.”

“I’d like that,” the synth smirked before digging back in to his food.

“So what sorts of things do you tinker on, Brigitte?”

The girl beamed at Nate, her brown eyes sparkling at the idea of discussing her work. “All sorts of things! My dad’s big in to building weapons and turrets and things like that, but I prefer to focus on armor and weapon mods. I’ve been helping out with building a brand new prototype for new power armor that is almost like a tank. It’s less of a harness and more like a vehicle, if that makes any sense. It’ll come with rockets and machine guns, a special armor system similar to my and Paladin Reinhardt’s Light Shields, and built-in rocket-boosters to give it more maneuverability. I’m really holding out that it works properly. Elder Maxson’s found a pilot and she’s going to be here any day now to give it a test-run when we’re ready. We’re also working on fixing up an old-world piece of tech we found in an Enclave bunker. Hey! Maybe you know about it? Since you’re from the military. Do you know anything about the Bastion project?”

“Bastion,” Nate furrowed his brows, obviously struggling to pick through his shredded memories. “Ah… I know the name… But…sorry. What is it? And uh, what’s an Enclave?”

“The Enclave was a faction that rose from the old-world Government,” Fareeha answered between sips pof water. “They’re not around anymore.”

“Oh.”

“The unit we found is a sort of mix of a tank and mobile turret,” Brigitte explained. “It’s capable of switching between modes and all sorts of weird things that we’ve never seen before. It also came with some AI, so we’re trying our best to hack it and figure out what sort of AI we’re dealing with and whether or not it’s functional before we proceed to activate the thing. AI can’t always be trusted, and it’s probably so messed up from sitting around in the dirt that it’s not working right, anyways. But we’re going to see what secrets it has. Plus, its design is pretty amazing. I’m excited to work on it some more. My dad’s the main engineering lead driving that force, though. He’s not excited about the AI thing, but he’s interested in it so we’ll see what happens.”

“That sounds interesting,” Nate agreed. “I have some hacking skills, if you’d like me to take a look.”

“Really? Sure! I’ll drop your name at the next meeting and see what my dad thinks!”

“Sure,” Nate chuckled and flashed a grin. “I think you’ll get alone with Sturges just fine.”

“Good evening, Knights. I heard about your success at Fort Strong.”

76 looked up from his tray to see Lancer-Captain Kells standing aside their table, hands behind a laced back and dark eyes gazing down upon the blondes with something resembling respect.

Nate glanced up from his meal and gave a small but gracious nod. “It was no big deal, sir. We were just doing our job.”

The pilot wasn’t even looking at Jack, his attention wholly on Nate, who’d returned his eyes to his dinner. “The fact that you nearly single-handedly took out that beast without utilizing power armor or heavy weaponry is reckless but admittedly impressive. Remarkable, even.”

Nate offered a reserved shrug that 76 couldn’t decide whether to categorize as shy or not. “The bigger the barn the easier it is to shoot, sir. It wasn’t a challenge. Supermutants are intimidating only because they’re able to soak up more bullets then people can. But if you know where to shoot them, it’s not much of a challenge, even the big ones.”

“I see. Your techniques would be good to pass along to our soldiers, should you be willing to share them.”

“I’m sure the opportunity will present itself. I’ve got a mission to find a missing recon squad with Paladin Danse starting tomorrow, but next time I’m here I’ll see how to set up a class or something. But Jack was the one that managed that whole parade of guns out there,” Nate attempted to deflect the subject of conversation. “You really should be thanking him, not me.”

“Both of you exceeded my expectations,” Kells admitted and nodded respectfully in 76’s direction. “Good job out there today, both of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” 76 smiled.

“I trust that you both will have a pleasant evening this holiday. Ad victorium, soldiers, and good night.” Kells pressed a fist to his chest before sauntering off to continue his meet-and-greet rounds.

“Commander Kells isn’t so bad,” Brigitte smiled at Nate. “He’s a little stiff but he’s a good man and holds everyone to high expectations. I think he likes you, actually.”

“That’s _liking_ me?” Nate scoffed. “I’d hate to see him hating someone.”

Danse set his tray down and sat at Nate’s left at the end of the picnic-style metal tables they were using, and opened a beer and sat a small case of them down for the group to share. Many of the soldiers they’d seen were already inebriated but weren’t scolded by their superiors for it, resulting in drunken singing to the radio filling the background. The air inside the Prydwen was warm and rich with the smell of meat and soup and cigarette smoke and laughter, reminding 76 so much of the old days of Blackwatch that his heart clenched and rolled in his chest. Gabriel’s smiling face flashed in his mind’s eye, igniting a cold and yearning fire in his veins as Jack’s mourning swelled. The synth snatched one of the beers and took a deep swig to hide his frown against the brown glass, suddenly wishing that his tolerance for alcohol wasn’t as high as it was.

 

“Trying to forget something, soldier?”

76 dropped his bottle to look at Danse, smiling as though amused but Nate saw straight through the act. Danse had already proven himself to be an observant creature, though he was ironically unaware of it entirely, and his knack for blatancy made scenes like this likely to repeat themselves. “Oh. No. I uh, just haven’t had a beer in a while. Sort of wish it were cold, though.”

“We run out quickly during holidays and special events. We’re lucky any was left at all, so don’t go through it too quickly.”

“So,” Fareeha leaned in to flash a smirk at Nate; he still didn’t know why everyone was so damn fixated on him, “how do you like the Brotherhood so far? Pretty cool, right?”

“It’s definitely a military organization,” he chuckled and scooped some more mashed tatos into his mouth. They were creamy and tangy and probably the best thing he’d had since he’d woken up. Nate himself wasn’t much of a cook. He burned almost everything that went in an oven, and Hanzo hadn’t proven to be much better. Preston was an all right cook from what he could tell during the little time they’d spent on the road together, but no one could beat Codsworth. Either Nate or Nora were great in the kitchen so they’d decided to get a Mr. Handy to help around the house once they both realized they’d be playing ‘real suburban family’. Before Nora got pregnant, both of them were busybodies and almost never saw one another.

Nate’s brows furrowed as the memories swirled in his head, fuzzy but there and so close to being clear that he was almost desperate. Per usual, he remembered…feelings; things; no images, just dry facts. Facts like being terrible at cooking. Facts like knowing that they’d once tried to make a Thanksgiving turkey and it had nearly burned their house to the ground but spent half the night laughing about it. Facts like that Nora was older than him, and how they’d met on campus when she was studying her law degree, and how she was ferocious and beautiful and charming and perfect and GOD, how much he missed her…

“Are you all right?”

“Hm?” Nate felt the haze clear in his eyes when he smiled up at Danse, who was looking down at him with concern. The paladin was out of his ridiculous headpiece thing that he insisted on wearing with his power armor, and his dark brown hair was an absolute disaster, tousled and wild but clean. They’d all showered when they’d returned. It was unsurprisingly a communal shower but the water was lukewarm and not irradiated and fucking amazing, so he didn’t care. Danse had a separate bathroom to use, one set up for higher-ranked soldiers, and Nate could only imagine how much grease and dirt was in that thing with how Danse looked half the time. With his face finally clean of all the grime and grunge, and not smelling like a burning pile of oil, and his hair free of that stupid helmet, Danse looked…nice. Nate could now clearly see the thin, silvery scars that dressed his skin, and the knick taken out of his left brow. His short hair was still wet and was too long in some areas, like he cut it himself with a knife, making some of the strands curl in odd ways. His shadow that threatened to become a thin beard had been cleaned up, and he was dressed down to his orange and cream Brotherhood uniform with a flight jacket on top to fend off the chill from walking on the catwalks outside. It all struck Nate hard and without warning, his stomach curling and turning warm, even with all of the negative feelings coiling in his guts: Paladin Danse was handsome.

Shit.

Nate felt his eyes go glossy again as the guilt swelled in his belly. He’d found men attractive, always, and it had never bothered Nora, but it now unsettled him to find anyone attractive but her. Nora was this pristine goddess propped up in a glass case carefully constructed around what little memory he had left of her, and any threat to it was to be dealt with. She would have certainly chastised him for it. Nora wasn’t the sort of partner that would have wanted him to be alone or to spend every waking hour mourning her, but it had barely been two months and the wounds were still raw.

It was Christmas and he was alone. The world was over. Nora was dead. Shaun might be dead, too. And it was his fault.

 “I asked if you were all right,” Danse repeated. “You look ill. Are you well?”

“Ah… Uh… No. I’m…fine. I’m just thinking. Sorry.”

A deafening silence blanketed the table and Nate knew that everyone was staring at him, trying to decipher what was going on in his head. He was doing a pretty terrible job of hiding his anxiety and could feel his panic beginning to uncoil. He needed to find a way out—now.

“I actually promised Preston that I’d radio in about some Minutemen stuff. I was just thinking about that. There’s always a lot going on with my settlements and all that. I need to check in before it gets too late and he starts to worry.” Nate stood and compulsively fiddled with his lighter. “I’ll be back.” He flashed a smile meant to reassure them and hoped that it would be enough to disseminate any concerns to return the small group to their festivities while he made a casually-paced break for it.

Finding a private place on the busy ship wasn’t an easy task, particularly with the holiday rush and Nate’s unfamiliarity with the vessel’s layout, but his walkthrough earlier that day had given him enough to know where to go to avoid the worst of it. Nate cut through the Prydwen, managing to avoid conversation by worming through the drunken troops and depending upon his relative obscurity and talent for vanishing in a crowd to protect him, which it gratefully did, and he eventually made it to the safety of the catwalks. The air outside was sharp and frigid, and they were high enough above the bay that the winds made it feel much worse, but the cold discouraged anyone from lingering too long outdoors.

He found a series of aluminum storage crates and tucked himself between them, swallowing his vertigo, closing his eyes and turning himself to stare in to the walls and giving in to his anxiety. It came in a series of waves, flooding him and making his entire body shiver, filling him and coiling and rolling like a storm contained in his body.

It was Christmas and he was alone. The world was over. Nora was dead. Shaun might be dead, too. And it was his fault.

He should have known. Should have done something— _anything_. He’d let it happen. He’d failed his country, his wife, his son, and the whole fucking world. If he’d only been good enough. If he’d just tried a little fucking harder, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. He could have stopped it all. He didn’t know how but he knew it.

Nate couldn’t remember the details of his missions but he remembered failing them. He remembered knowing he wasn’t strong enough or good enough to stop what was coming. He remembered being a failure.

He was a failure.

He was a failure then and he was a failure now.

What the hell was he doing? People were so stupid thinking he could do anything to actually help. They only wanted him because he was an SEP soldier, because they were supposed to be some sort of superheroes. But he hadn’t stopped the end of the world and he couldn’t possibly drag it out from the depths after the fact.

His fault…

His fault…

It was his fucking fault…

It was Christmas and he was alone. The world was over. Nora was dead. Shaun might be dead, too. And it was his fault.

His fault.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

“Knight.”

There was a knife in his hand and he’d swerved to put it to the intruder’s throat, instinct acting on impulse, but the hand had been caught and Nate felt his fingers loosen enough for it to be solely removed, his strength drained by the same anguish that threatened to suffocate him. It took a long moment for the voice to press through the dense blackness clouding his mind enough to clear the way for light to cut in, but Danse’s face came in to view, stern and handsome and troubled. He was holding Nate by the wrist, stooped down to his level. Even outside of his armor, Danse was a large man, tall and wide-shouldered and brawny, and his broadness was enough to hide Nate away from the whole damn world. “Knight,” he repeated gently, “you’re having a panic attack. Focus on my voice. You’re going to be all right.”

Nate choked on a messy sob, suddenly too overwhelmed by his anxiety to hide it. He was now aware enough that he could feel his whole body shaking, and could tell that his cheeks were wet. Shit. He was crying, actually fucking crying. He hung his head and shook it but no words formed in his throat, only more disgusting blubbering.

In Nate’s personal experience, most people, particularly other men and even more so fellow soldiers, didn’t do well when around an adult man having a complete breakdown, but he sensed no judgment from the paladin who was just watching him and keeping close without invading his personal space.

“Do you want me to leave?” Danse asked.

Nate grabbed at the paladin’s flight jacket with his free hand, and he felt his left be released which he quickly used to grab on to the fabric like it rooted him to reality.

“It’s all right. I’m here.” Danse put a large hand on his shoulder. “I’ll make certain that no one bothers you. You’re safe with me.”

The shivers returned and overwhelmed him, and Nate felt his waist buckle as he fell forward, face in Danse’s chest as he cried, open and ugly and awful.

He didn’t know how long had passed of him just crying like that, but Danse never once hinted that he’d had enough of it. The paladin only shifted once he’d sensed that Nate was beginning to settle down. Danse moved to sit cross-legged in front of him, still blocking Nate from the view of the bay and from the worst of the wind, his chestnut eyes studying the blonde very carefully. “Are you all right?”

“Y-yeah… Sorry about that,” Nate managed. He wiped his face with his right sleeve, sniffling and smothering a hiccup. “I didn’t mean to fall apart like that. I know I should be better than to cry like a little kid. I just…it just got to me. This is my first Christmas without Nora. Hell, I don’t really even remember any of the ones we had,” he chuckled miserably and leaned his head back, rolling his eyes at himself. “But it just…hurts…so much… I miss her so fucking much… Sorry…”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Danse grunted. “You’ve been through hell. There’s no shame in crying, and certainly none in mourning your family. No one on this ship could possibly come close to understanding what you’ve lost, and you shouldn’t feel obligated to hide or be ashamed of it. That’s wholly unhealthy behavior.”

Nate stared at Danse for a moment before smiling and laughing, his face falling into his hands.

“I don’t see what’s so funny.”

“I just…didn’t really expect you to be a therapist.”

“I’m hardly a therapist, Knight. I’m simply concerned about your emotional well-being.”

“Thanks, Danse,” Nate smiled, knowing that he looked pathetic with red and puffy eyes and tear stains, but Danse nodded gently down at him, close enough that Nate could feel his radiating body heat. “I mean it. I have occasional anxiety attacks. I had them before everything, but the serum made it worse. I’ll try and keep it from getting in the way of my duties, though. I’ll be fine.”

“Nonsense,” Danse snorted as though somehow offended. “Knight, if you ever require to find a safe space, you need only tell me and I’ll make certain that you have the privacy you require. I’m aware that your enhanced physiology makes it a challenge for medications to be sufficient in managing chemical imbalances, but Brotherhood employs qualified personnel that might be able to assist you.”

“Hell no,” Nate frowned and shook his head adamantly. “NO shrinks. I spent two years locked up talking to people like that and I’m not about to do it again.”

“I see. Very well.”

“How did you even know where I was?”

“I didn’t. I located you by simple search and exclusion. No personnel had recently seen you indoors, so the catwalks were the next obvious place to look. I simply followed my instincts based on my knowledge of your personality and preferences.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a funny way of talking?”

“Yes. Often.”

Nate chuckled again. “So…you were worried about me?”

“I was concerned about you, yes. You were obviously suffering heightened levels of distress, and though I wasn’t certain that it was my place to offer aid when it was not specifically invited, I believed that it would be prudent to at least discern your whereabouts. When I saw you experiencing an anxiety attack, I decided that it would be wrong if I didn’t at least offer my assistance, though I was fully prepared to back off should you have asked it of me.”

“I see. Is it normal for paladins to go chasing after their crying soldiers?”

Danse pressed his lips together, seeming to consider the question much more seriously than Nate had intended. The man was too literal, but it was sort of endearing. “May I share something of…personal…nature with you?”

“Uh…sure. I mean, you’ve seen me cry like a toddler so it’s not like I can judge you.”

“Things were…difficult…when we arrived here. My recon squad had originally consisted of seven members. The first squad had radical success and no losses. The second all but disappeared. We were sent to check in on that squad and to send back any relevant information that we could find regarding hostiles and other such things. But we quickly found the Commonwealth to be far more hostile and chaotic than the original recon squad had reported, and time after time we had to fall back and suffered losses. My soldiers kept dying, no matter how hard I tried to keep things together. Things just kept getting worse.

“One of my men was severely injured in a standoff against a horde of supermutants when he was repeatedly shot in the back. He fell in to a coma and was completely paralyzed, and his organs began to shut down one by one. Scribe Haylen struggled to keep him alive. She stayed with him through the night, but it was quickly apparent that he was not going to survive, and that should he manage to wake up that he would suffer. His brain had also been severely damaged due to a lack of oxygen for a time. Even if she’d been able to bring him from the cusp of death, he’d have had no real life.

“The following day, I made the hard call. I ordered her to administer a deadly dosage of medicinal chems to end his life. Haylen complied with my orders without question, though I could see that doing so deeply hurt her.”

“You doubt your decision?” Nate asked quietly, once there was a natural lull in conversation.

Danse looked up and shook his head once, firm and confident. “No. I stand behind every order I’ve ever given. That man would have led a life of misery, had he survived. It was better for him to have died with integrity than to be a vegetable just for the sake of saying that he was ‘alive’, if you could even call it that. But I could tell that Haylen was deeply unsettled by the experience.

“One night, a few days later, when I was considering approaching her about the situation while Knight Rhys was out gathering some much-needed provisions, Haylen requested to speak with me in private. I complied, of course, but she had difficulty getting her feelings across, culminating in her breaking down. She fell against my and just…cried. I wasn’t sure of what to do so I just held her for a little while… Several minutes later, she withdrew, thanked me, kissed my cheek and left, and that was the last time we got close to discussing the nature of what had happened. She seemed to recover from the event after that, though I know that she continues to be burdened by it to some degree.”

“Do you feel bad for asking her to do it?”

“Sometimes,” Danse admitted, his gritty voice going distance and quiet for a brief moment. He lifted his eyes, no tears clouding them but emotion and sentiment drenched in the earthy colors staring down at his attentive subordinate. “I’m not particularly skilled with talking anyone through their emotional problems but I’m capable of at least listening to them. Haylen calls me a ‘sound board’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Just…know that I’m here, Knight, and that I won’t judge or mock you. I’m your commanding officer but I’m also personally invested in your well-being. I want to be someone that you know that you can depend upon and trust and know that you’re safe around. I…guess that’s all that I wanted to say.”

Nate smiled softly. “Yeah… I know. You know…when I first met you, I wasn’t really sure what to expect. You were like this totally masculine soldier guy that seemed to just blindly follow a belief system similar to one that I’d discredited. But…maybe you’re not so bad, after all.”

Danse smirked when Nate’s lips crooked, and the pair of men chuckled like giggling schoolgirls under a football stadium. “Thanks, I think. I don’t particularly have many friends but I’d like to think that we get along well enough.”

“We’re friends,” Nate nodded. “Friends look out for each other. I think you’ve just proven as much. Not everyone’s so willing to overlook someone’s fragilities. Especially in the military. And hell knows I’ve got a lot of them…”

“You’re hardly fragile.”

“That just speaks to how little you know me.”

“Everyone has their own baggage,” Danse murmured, his eyes dropping slightly in self-reflection. Nate thought that that was the end of the thought but Danse surprised him by continuing. “I don’t sleep well, and I suffer insomnia and migraines. Cade says that I have PTSD and has repeatedly attempted to force me to take personal leave.”

“PTSD is normal amongst soldiers, Danse. If your doctor is encouraging you to take some time off, maybe you should.”

“No,” Danse snorted. “No, that wouldn’t help at all.”

“Didn’t you _just_ encourage me to talk to someone or take meds if they’d help?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

Nate arched a cynical eyebrow and Danse flit his eyes towards him and away like a bashful child knowing they’d been caught in a lie. “Danse. Please.”

“I’d rather just sit here with you, if that’s fine with you.”

Nate sighed but nodded, not willing to argue since he was in a similar boat. “All right. I guess we can help each other, maybe. And hey, if you want to cry, feel free.”

Danse smirked up at him, his dark eyes sparkling some as he fought a chuckle, and Nate smiled. It was easy smiling with Danse. He was stubborn and brainwashed and devoted to a maniac, but he wasn’t completely lost. “Thanks for the offer but I’m all right.”

“Hey, just saying. The offer’s on the table.”

“Thank you. Are you ready to go back inside?”

“I guess so,” Nate sighed. “But I need to crash soon. I really need to get back to work early tomorrow, if possible. You’re going to come with me, right?”

“That’s my orders, so yes.”

“We can look for information about the recon team on the way. I’ve got a settlement close to where I think is a good place to start, so we can have a bird drop us off there and see where it leads after I check in with the locals and fix some stuff up. I hope you’re good with a wrench, big guy.”

“I’m…adequate.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Nate smiled.

Danse nodded and smiled back, and the pair of men basked in their quiet moment, hidden away behind stacks of boxes on a catwalk hundreds of feet above the skeleton of Boston Bay.

It was Christmas and he was with his new friends. The world was starting over. Nora was gone but not forgotten. Shaun was out there somewhere waiting for him. And Nate was ready to face it all.

He was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays!!!
> 
> Nate has occasional anxiety attacks and will definitely be having more (76 nearly had one himself on the vertibird). I actually wasn’t planning to include that scene in this chapter, but sometimes characters take things in different directions… Luckily, Nate has friends that are very supportive.
> 
> Nate’s first night on the Prydwen and further details about the party, and more interactions with other characters are covered in WCMD.
> 
> Going back to check in on the Talon crew next chapter, and the Minutemen set their eyes on taking back their old base of operations.
> 
> I’ll try and get another chapter up on time next week… Things are sort of crazy during the holidays!

**Author's Note:**

> The first story in this poorly-titled series will focus on Gabriel/Reaper & Jack/76, with the next being Genji & Zenyatta, and then Hanzo & McCree, before their stories collide and Nate tries to keep everyone from killing each other. There may be occasional side stories and other POVs inserted.  
>   
> Apologies for the terrible Spanish and Japanese translations. Feel free to correct them in the comments!  
>   
> Thanks for reading!


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